


The Bird and the Bat

by Cursedkaze



Series: The Bat and the Bird 'Verse [3]
Category: Batman (Comics), Justice League of America (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Acrophobia, Adult Dick Grayson, Age Swap AU, Alcohol Mentions, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Trauma, Circus Bruce AU, Claustrophobia, Death, Disassociation, Exposure therapy, Flooding Therapy, Former Cop Grayson, Gen, Gun Violence, Hints of former Dick/Barbara, Hints of former Dick/Koriand'r, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prolonged Exposure Therapy, Romani Dick Grayson, Sidekicks came first AU, Suicide mentions, Trauma, Unsafe practises, Vomiting, Young Bruce Wayne, adoption au, lying, no major pairings, talking about feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-03-11 10:18:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 123,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13522167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cursedkaze/pseuds/Cursedkaze
Summary: Dick Grayson is used to dealing with kids wanting to run away with the circus but Bruce Wayne isn't a normal runaway. He's an orphan, like Dick, and minor celebrity in his own right.  He's also in danger, though he doesn't know it, and Dick is determined to keep him safe. This turns out to be harder than he was anticipating; he wasn't expecting the kid to be so stubborn, or so smart, or so angry, and most of all he wasn't expecting to get so attached to him. Dick doesn't have long to learn how to be a father and he will have to learn fast because Bruce isn't going to wait for him to catch up. Will he become a bat, or something much worse? Who is really responsible for the death of the Waynes and what will Bruce do when he finds out the truth?  How can Dick protect him from an old enemy if he can't protect Bruce from himself?





	1. Gotham City

It was coming up to half past nine in the afternoon and the temperature was falling fast when the kid that had been watching him pack up for the last hour finally comes out of the shadows.

“I want to join the circus.” He says.

There is no question there, which is the first thing Dick Grayson notices about him. He wasn’t asking, he wasn’t pleading or trying to persuade him; it was a blunt declaration of intent, like a declaration of war.

The second thing Dick Grayson notices about him is his clothing. Dick had an eye for Gotham fashions and the suit is expensive, very expensive, like he had come from a funeral, and though it has been ruffled and dirtied by the day’s activities he didn’t seem to care. That said old money to Dick, old enough that a kid doesn’t have to care about ruining his good suit. He probably had a maid back home who washed for him and would never dream of asking the young master to take better care of his clothing.

Dick sighs. He wishes that this was the first time he had to deal with this.

“Kid, running away with the circus is an urban legend. No-one actually does it.” He explains.

Technically it’s not true. Haly’s took in runaways; they’d picked up three tonight, on their last night in Gotham but they’re all over eighteen. They’re teenagers from rough homes looking for a fresh start and they’d do grunt work for a ride to the next city then disappear. Haly’s didn’t take kids who couldn’t be older than ten.

“I want to join the circus.” The kid restates and balls his tiny hands into stubborn fists.

 Dick crouches to be closer to the kid’s eye level. Dark hair in a fashionable cut, dark suit, dark shoes now covered with a fine layer of dust, everything about him seemed to be dark.

“You should go home; your parents must be sick with worrying about you…” Dick starts to say.

The boy shakes his head.

“They’re not.” He says with the same leaden certainty.

“Now how do you know that, I’m sure they love you very much…” Dick starts again and the kid looks up at him. His eyes are a piercing icy blue and starting to rim with tears.

“They’re dead.” He says and Dick hears in that voice an echo of himself when he was younger.

“…I’m sorry to hear that.” Dick says softly.

They’re off the script now and he’s not sure what to say to this child on the brink of crying.

“You didn’t kill them.” The boy tries to shrug it off but his piercing eyes still stab at Dick’s heart. “Did you?”

Dick shakes his head. There’s no question of that.

“Where’s your family?” Dick asks.

The kid shoves his hand in his pockets.

“Don’t have any. The Kanes are vultures and they hate me and they arrested Alfred.” He says.

“And Alfred is…?” Dick asks.

“My butler.” The kid says. “They say he’s implicated in the murder but he’s innocent.”

Dick bites back a swear as he realizes who the kid must be.

“You’re Bruce Wayne, aren’t you?” He asks and the kid scowls.

Now Dick recognizes him. He’d been in their audience before, looking out at the show with that same sullen expression, like he was afraid smiling would stop him looking cool. Dick remembered how a trick would wow him and he would smile like sun peeking from behind a cloud. He remembers this because Martha Wayne is the main reason they performed in Gotham at all, there were always seats reserved for her and her family. They always performed extra-well on the nights Martha was there to watch.

He’d heard the news of course but it is going to be hard getting used to talking about Martha in the past tense. She loved the circus, she was practically an honorary member. Had been. She had been almost family.

“Bruce, this isn’t something you can run away from.” Dick says softly and puts a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder.

Bruce is shaking, just a little, with the effort it takes not to cry. Dick’s sure if he pointed it out he would say it was just the cold.

“I have to get out of this city. Please.” He says and his eyes are desperately pleading.

“Bruce, if I did it would be kidnapping.” Dick points out. “It isn’t my decision to make.”

The kid leaps forwards and wraps his arms around Dick’s middle.

“Please don’t make me go.” Bruce says.

Dick hugs him back and strokes his fingers comfortingly through the boy’s hair.

“It’s going to be okay Bruce. I promise it will all be okay…” He says to soothe him.

He feels his heart break when the boy begins to cry. He holds him close and ignores the tears soaking through his shirt until the trembling of the tiny body in his arms has stilled.

“…Bruce, I’m going to have to make a phone call. Is it okay if I pick you up?” He asks.

Bruce nods, still keeping his face buried in Dick’s shirt. Dick hooks a hand around him and lifts him up onto his hip. Plenty of the performers have children; Bruce is less squirmy than them but the feeling of tiny hands gripping his shirt is familiar.

He heads back to his trailer. A few friends give him a questioning look as he walks back with a child he didn’t have before. He gives them a reassuring smile and keeps a tight hold on the boy. He wouldn’t drop him for anything.

The trailer is a mess; he feels the familiar stab of regret he always did when anyone else saw it and a rush of temporary motivation to clean later (that will fade before he actually cleans). He leaves the door open so the kid doesn’t feel trapped but he doesn’t even look at the door.

“Did you tell anyone where you were going?” He asks. “Leave a note or anything?”

Bruce shakes his head without looking up.

“Alright.” Dick knocks his home phone off the hook and catches it one handed. It worked out better than the cell. “I’m going to have to call this in, is that alright?”

The kid wordlessly tightens his grip.

“Easy now, I’m not going anywhere.” Dick reassures him. “I just want to make sure people know I haven’t kidnapped you.”

There is no reply but the kid doesn’t make any move to tighten his grip further so Dick takes that as a tentative yes. He stays quiet and still as Dick sits and dials Barbara’s number. Emergency services in Gotham were always tied-up but she picks up on the third ring.

“Hey Babs, it’s Dick.” He says and feels from the shift on his hip that the kid is now paying close attention to him. He smiles as Barbara quickly points out she has caller id, everyone has caller id Dick, it’s the 21st century. “Yeah, I know, this call is for business, not pleasure, not that talking to you isn’t a pleasure in itself.”

He winks for the kid’s benefit and Bruce pulls a face and hides in Dick’s shirt again. His eyes are red-rimmed from the tears but he’s stopped crying. Now he’s looking around like a cornered animal, wondering what’s going to happen next and trying not to look like he’s doing it.

“You know the Wayne kid?” Dick says and Bruce looks up at him again. “Yeah the same one, I’ve got him here with me.”

Dick laughs.

“I know, what are the odds? Yeah, he’s doing fine. Want to say hi Bruce?” He offers the phone.

Bruce tightly presses his lips together and shakes his head.

“He’s not in a talking mood.” Dick seamlessly slips back into the conversation. “Mhmm. Yeah. Yeah. Alright, I’ll tell him. Right, good talking to you. Bye.”

He hangs up the phone and looks down at Bruce glaring up at him with a mixture of stubbornness and curiosity.

“That was Barbara Gordon, she’s a friend of mine and a police officer.” Dick tells him. “She’s going to come and pick you up, then we’re going to have a little talk about this running away from home thing.”

“I’ve met her.” Bruce says and waits in morose silence for a few minutes, as if searching for something else to say. “She was nice.”

“Good to hear.” Dick looks him over. “Hungry?”

Bruce stares blankly at him.

“She won’t be here for a while and I don’t know if you ate before running away to join the circus.” Dick says with a teasing edge to his voice. “I’ve got some leftover pasta I could heat up, or there’s pizza. I could probably whip us up some candy floss if you promise not to tell Barbara.”

Bruce frowns.

“I’m not a baby you can bribe with sweets.” He folds his arms. “I can look after myself.”

“I never said you couldn’t.” Dick says mildly. “I asked if you were hungry.”

Bruce gazes off into the middle distance. Even with all his practise Dick is having trouble reading his expression.

“I don’t want to go back to that empty house.” Bruce says quietly. “It’s too big and too…too empty.” His voice cracks and he frowns in anger at his own weakness.

Dick wraps an arm around his shoulder and makes wordless shushing noises to comfort him. Bruce tightly hugs him and frowns all the deeper.

Dick feels for him, he is trying to be strong, trying to be independent, and afraid of his own feelings. Dick understands what that’s like, when he first lost his parents he was so afraid that if he stopped moving and faced the truth the darkness would swallow him up and he’d never be able to break free of it. He hid that fear behind optimism and hard work until he broke down under it weeks later. Maybe some day Bruce won’t be afraid to cry, but for now they’d just met and Dick knows that any attempt to tell him that will make Bruce withdraw more, out of contrariness. He was a boy old enough to want to be treated as an adult, no, with respect.

“Bruce, you might not believe me…” Dick starts to say and clears his throat at his tone.

Bruce turns to look at him and his eyes are already accusing. Dick can see the walls going up.

“I lost my parents when I was your age too.” Dick confesses with his heart feeling heavy in his chest. “I was lucky, the circus has been a family to me, I could open up to them, trust them, talk with them...”

Dick searches for the words.

“Bruce...I know you’re scared to be hurt but if you keep pushing people away, soon you’ll have no-one you can trust and nowhere you’ll feel safe. It doesn’t have to be family, just promise me you’ll find someone you can talk to.”

Bruce looks away from him.

“...I promise.” He says in a voice so faint Dick can’t tell if he’s being genuine.

Dick's cell phone vibrates on the counter and plays Barbara’s text alert sound. He knows what the message would be without checking.

“Babs is here. Are you going to come quietly?” Dick asks with a teasing tone.

Bruce frowns and for a moment Dick is afraid he’s considering running.

“If I have to.” He says stubbornly and holds his head high, though his hand still reaches for Dick’s.

Dick holds his hand as they walk through the increasingly barren looking fairgrounds. They will be gone by morning, leaving only impressions in the earth to show where they had pitched their tents. The lights have gone dark, the colourful fabric of the big top folded up and stowed away. The faint scent of funnel cake and popcorn still lingers on the Gotham smog. Soon it will be swallowed by the smells of gasoline and tarmac.

“I’m going to run away again.” Bruce confesses out of the blue. He glares up at Dick, daring him to take offense.

Dick stays calm and unreadable.

As they walk out of the entrance to the fairgrounds Bruce catches sight of the police cruiser and tightens his grip on Dick’s hand. Dick squeezes it back to reassure him.

Barbara is leaning against the door of the cruiser as they approach. Her arms are folded as she looks at them with the same look she gave Dick when he left his laundry on the floor.

“You’re in big trouble young man.” She tells Bruce. “Your uncle has been looking for you.”

“I don’t care.” The kid says and folds his arms back.

Dick tries not to smile at how adorable his pouty face was, especially when the kid looks to him for backup. He forces his face into a neutral mask and coughs.

“Get in the car.” Barbara orders.

Bruce immediately turns to look at Dick with pleading puppy dog eyes.

“I promised I’d see him home safe.” Dick lies easily.

Barbara of course notices immediately then notices how tightly Bruce is clutching Dick’s hand and makes the connection. She always was the sharp one.

“Alright, both of you in the car then.” She keeps her voice professionally level to show Bruce how serious the situation is but Dick can tell she’s also trying not to smile. “But we are going to have a talk about this.”

“Fine…” Bruce nods and climbs into the back of the cruiser. He immediately turns so he is looking moodily out the window.

Dick sits next to him and Bruce’s hand creeps across the seat to grab his. The journey back to the station is held in awkward silence as Bruce looks out at the neon of the streets lighting up. He was talking but Dick can see he’s tensing up in fear of the telling off he’s going to get.

Dick wishes he knew what to say to make things alright. No, he wishes he could do more. He wants to pull the kid into a tight hug and reassure him he’ll always be here for him. He can’t do it though, the circus was constantly on the move after all. He would be able to be there for this poor lonely kid, as much as he wishes he could take him with him…

The station is buzzing with activity by the time the cruiser pulls in. Bruce clings close to Dick’s pant leg to avoid getting swept away in the rush. No-one pays any attention to him as Gotham’s finest bustle around doing their every-day duty, at least until a burly military type catches sight of them. Bruce’s hands tighten around Dick’s leg and he shrinks back, trying to hide behind the acrobat.

The man’s eyes focus on Dick and the anger and hate is clear in them.

“Who the hell do you think you are, stealing my nephew?” He snarls as he pushes his way past the people at the front desk to loom over Dick. His hands are curling themselves into fists already.

Dick meets his gaze calmly, refusing to be intimidated. He coldly notes the man’s uniform and the name below the stripes. Colonel Kane apparently. A ‘vulture’ according to Bruce.

“I’m an old friend of Martha’s.” He says calmly and follows up the half-truth with a complete fabrication. “I told Bruce he could stay with me if he was ever in trouble, obviously he chose to invoke that offer prematurely Sir.”

Bruce’s eyes widen and his grip tightens as he realizes that Dick is lying for him but thankfully the colonel isn’t looking at his nephew.

“Of course Martha’d fall in with bloody _gypsies_.” The Colonel spits and Dick keeps his calm demeanour, even though it looks like Colonel Kane is struggling not to hit him.

“Yes I am _Romani_ sir, but that is irrelevant.” Dick coolly corrects. His calm manner is only making the colonel more enraged but the man deserves it. No wonder Bruce didn’t want to go home if this is what he had to look forward to. “Martha Wayne was always in support of Haly’s circus, it is no wonder Bruce wanted to run away to somewhere he felt safe.”

The accusation lying under Dick’s words makes the colonel’s eyes narrow and for the first time he notices Bruce hiding behind Dick’s legs.

“Get out here now Boy.” He orders and Bruce tightens his grip.

“Don’t want to…” He starts to say timidly.

“Now Boy, that’s an order!” The Colonel snarls and Bruce jolts with fear and quickly stands to attention. “Bad enough that idiot doctor got them both killed, he didn’t even teach his son proper respect.” The colonel folds his arms, looking over the boy disapprovingly. “You have got to be disciplined Boy. You are never going to run away from home again, is that clear?”

“Y-Yes.” Bruce stutters under the look the colonel is giving him. “Yes sir!” He quickly corrects.

From the fear in his voice and in his posture Dick wonders if the colonel has ever struck him. He wouldn’t put it past him.

“Thank you for returning him _Mr…?_ ” The colonel puts a condescending emphasis on his lack of title.

“Grayson. Richard Grayson.” Dick replies and smoothly moves to cut him off at the exact moment the colonel moves to push past him. He crouches to be closer to Bruce’s eye level, ignoring the colonel to his barely suppressed rage.

“Now then Bruce, be a good boy alright?” He says to the kid directly. Bruce looks back at him, silently pleading with him not to leave. Dick’s heart breaks for the second time today. “Chin up Bruce. I’m always here if you need someone to talk to.”

Dick reaches out and lifts Bruce’s chin for him, at the same time using sleight of hand to slip him a scrap of paper with his number scrawled on it. Bruce’s eyes widen a fraction as he realizes what Dick is giving him. He quickly hides it from the colonel’s view. Dick kisses his forehead, partially because he knows the gesture will annoy the colonel.

“Stay safe Bruce.” He gives a blessing.

“You’re wasting our time.” The colonel grips Bruce’s shoulder far too tightly and attempts to steer him to the exit.

“Actually, Colonel you can’t leave yet.” Barbara intervenes, stepping between them with a fresh cup of coffee in her hand.

The colonel’s eyes narrow again. Bruce rubs at his shoulder. Dick can tell it is going to bruise.

“It’s bad enough you can’t catch the rat that shot them, now you’re saying I can’t take him home?” Colonel Kane snorts.

“The Wayne Case is still hot, we have some questions regarding Bruce to put to Mr. Grayson.” Barbara replies. Despite the colonel being nearly a foot taller than her she is even less phased than Dick.

“What questions? He’s coming with us, we’re family!” The colonel points out.

“I cannot answer that until I have had my discussion with Mr. Grayson.” Barbara replies coolly. “Mr. Grayson, please accompany me to interview room three.”

Dick humbly obeys the police officer as if they were strangers and follows her to the indicated room. He only drops the pretence once Barbara has locked the door behind them and relaxed with a sigh.

“What’s this about Babs?” Dick asks her as he takes a seat.

Barbara takes the seat opposite him.

“Remember how I told you the Wayne case was still hot?” She asks.

Dick nods.

“Well it’s hotter than you can imagine. We’re still trying to track down the gunman but it’s looking like it was no accident. We’ve found evidence they were being targeted by one of the main families. Whoever it was they were paid off by someone, someone who wants the butler to take the fall.” Barbara tells him.

Dick smiles.

“So you’re saying…” He starts and Barbara sighs internally as she sees where this is going.

“Dick.” She warns him.

“You don’t think…” Dick presses on regardless.

“Dick!” Barbara glares.

“The butler…” Dick says.

“Dick, I have had to fake laugh at that same joke from everyone in the department but I swear on all that I believe in if you finish that sentence I will sock you one.” Barbara gives him an ultimatum.

Dick grins.

“Wow, police brutality. I should report you for that Detective Gordon.” He teases.

Barbara raises an eyebrow.

“Here? In Gotham? Good luck.” She snorts.

“Ouch, yeah, you have a point.” The amount of corruption in the Gotham Police probably shouldn’t be joked about, which is why he did. Barbara was the one fighting against it every day, the least he could do was bring some levity into her life.

“We could use you back on the force Dick. You were a good cop.” Barbara sighs wistfully.

“It wouldn’t have worked out, I’m a circus boy, it’s in my blood.” Dick fakes a smile but Barbara isn’t looking at him anymore.

Dick isn’t sure they’re strictly talking about the police work anymore.

“Bruce is a target.” The moment passes and Barbara returns to the case at hand. “Whoever organized the hit is going to want to finish the job and the colonel…”

“Is a complete psychopath.” Dick snorts.

“You didn’t see him at his best.” Barbara smiles faintly.

“I just wish there was something I could do to help the kid.” Dick sighs.

“There is.” Barbara tells him.

“What?” Dick asks.

“What you wish you could do.” Barbara replies.

“You mean?” Dick frowns.

“He won’t be safe in Gotham.” Barbara tells him.

“Barbara…” Dick tries to cut in.

“Getting out of the city will be good for him.” Barbara continues.

“Barbara….” Dick tries again.

“He can be home-schooled but you’ll be following the Department of Education standards…”

“Barbara!”

Barbara finally stops.

“Do you really think I can do this?” Dick asks her with his tone dead serious. “Do you really think I can help this child?”

“I am vouching for you as a former officer, a partner and a friend.” Barbara tells him. “It wouldn’t be adoption but you’d be his legal guardian. Think of it as witness protection, until we get the case sorted out. I’m going to have to devote all my resources to keeping the butler out of prison, I need someone I can _trust_ to keep him safe and in Gotham trust is in short supply.”

She smiles.

“Besides I saw how you moved to protect him, you didn’t want to let him go did you?”

“He’s so alone Babs.” Dick tells her. “He has no-one left and if he doesn’t have someone to care about him soon I’m afraid of what he’s going to become. He needs someone who’s going to help him, not discipline him.”

“Your parents were killed at around the same age, weren’t they?” Barbara says and, yeah, she was the sharp one and sometimes that cut deep. “There’s no-one in this city that understands him more than you.”

“We move on in the morning.” Dick tells her. “We won’t be back in Gotham for a year.”

“Then you better sign the paperwork fast.” Barbara tells him and slaps a thick wad of paper onto the table in front of him.

Dick does.

The colonel, predictably, does not take it well but Dick takes Bruce outside before the conversation escalates to cursing.

“On what authority are you letting a circus brat take away my nephew?!” The colonel barks in his direction as Dick walks past him and Barbara with Bruce.

“An undercover operative is not required to identify themselves unless ordered by their superiors _General_.” Dick says as he walks out the door. “If you have a problem with that, take it up with the president.”

They walk out into the Gotham night. The circus will be moving on by morning and they’ll be moving on with it. Dick hails a taxi with a wave of a bill that, when handed to the driver, turns out to be a twenty. He climbs into the back seat to sit beside Bruce. Bruce immediately cuddles up to his side.

“Thank you for saving me Richard…” The boy mutters sleepily.

“Please call me Dick, no-one who knows me calls me Richard.” Dick tells him. “My mother used to call me Dickey Bird because I’d hop everywhere like a little robin.”

“Alright Dick.”

Dick ruffles his hair.

“We’re going to have to pick up clothes and such as we go.” He says thoughtfully, already planning their next few stops. “Is there anything you want to pick up from the house?” He asks.

Bruce appears deep in thought for a few seconds then shakes his head emphatically.

“It’s all just memories, old, dusty memories.” He says and leans against Dick’s side.

After a few seconds a smile spreads across his face.

“What are you looking so happy about?” Dick asks him.

“I did run away with the circus in the end.” Bruce says smugly.

Dick opens his mouth to argue, realizes he is completely right, and closes it.

“Just don’t get used to it, alright buddy?” Dick tells him. “It was extremely dangerous, reckless and absolutely a one-time thing.”

Bruce yawns and closes his eyes. By the time the taxi stops at the fairgrounds he is fully and deeply asleep. Bruce stays asleep even as Dick picks up him up and pays the taxi driver. Dick is careful not to disturb him as he moves through the nearly abandoned fairgrounds. He gets a few annoyed looks and mouths apologies to those still packing up as he picks his way back to the trailer. He carefully tucks the boy into his bed and gets started on some research.

The Wayne murders is splashed over the front page over every Gotham publication, from the reputable to the less than so. He reads through them all; from the touching four-page memorial to their lives, to the gossip rag trying to drum up controversy by claiming Dr Thomas Wayne had arranged the hit to cover up his drug addiction. It takes some digging to find the actual information under the sentimental quotes and flattery, but his investigative instinct was strong. Jimmy had said he could have a career as a reporter if he hadn’t been so married to the badge.

Let’s see now, what does he know? On the surface the Waynes were Gotham’s golden children, shining examples of the upper crust loved by everyone…except their fellow social elite. Gotham had enough mysteries to keep any detective busy, every fact you uncovered left a new question behind, like a tangled ball of loose threads. So the Waynes had enemies; those whose place is high society was from dirty money, those that resented the pressure to match the Waynes generosity…Any one of them could afford to hire a gunman. Any one of them could afford to hire an assassin with no qualms about killing a child…

Dick turns to look at the sleeping boy.

Barbara was right, he’d be safer away from Gotham City. The hungry city, performers called it, always clamouring for spectacle or blood or both. It would chew up a traumatized kid like Bruce, cut him up like sashimi with scandals and serve him wrapped up in the front page of the Gotham Gazette.

Okay, maybe he was getting too tired for proper detective work. That last thought barely made sense.

He checks the clock. Yeah, he should sleep while he can. It’s so late it’s too early. Of course, his bed is currently occupied, but that has never stopped him. He tucks into a corner and shuts down the screen. Immediately the room is plunged into darkness and he finds it easier than he feared to fall asleep.

Dick had careful control over his sleeping habits; he could sleep through almost anything but certain things would shock him awake faster than being electrocuted. One of those things was the sound of a panicking child desperately calling for his mother. Dick hauls himself up, still half asleep, and winces at the ache in his body.

“Bruce, I’m here Bruce.” He says and yawns.

Bruce looks up at him, his eyes wide with fear and confusion. Whatever dream he’d woken up from it must have been terrible. Dick can tell he isn’t sure where he is.

“It’s me Dick.” He says to reassure him and spreads his arms.

Bruce dives into them and buries his face in Dick’s shirt.

“It’s okay, it’s going to be okay.” Dick mutters to him as he wraps one arm around Bruce’s back to support him and strokes his hair with the other. “It’s okay to be scared Bruce.” He tells him. “But I’m always going to be here for you.”

He yawns again, longer this time, he can’t stop it. He’s probably going to have to get used to this. Bruce is clinging to him too tightly to pull him free without damaging the shirt so he climbs into bed beside him and pulls the blanket over them both. Bruce’s breathing is already slowing as he closes his eyes.

“Always gonna be here.” Dick mutters and slips easily back to sleep with Bruce clinging to his shirt like a baby bat.


	2. Metropolis

The next thing to wake Dick up is his morning alarm. He reaches around turns off the alarm before he remembers what the added weight on his chest is. Bruce’s death grip has relaxed in his sleep and he is now resting peacefully without the scowl he usually had. He looks a lot younger without it. It’s a painful reminder that he is still a kid.

“Good morning Bruce.” He says as he tries to gently nudge the child awake.

He stirs, groans and rolls over. Dick nudges him again.

“Don’t wanna get up Mom.” He mutters sleepily, then screws up his face and blinks rapidly as he opens his eyes. “What time is it?” He asks.

“Just gone six.” Dick tells him. “Come on sleepyhead, if we’re late to breakfast there won’t be any left.”

“Six’s too early for breakfast. It’s Sunday.” Bruce complains and tries to go back to sleep.

Dick pulls the blanket away from him.

 “No can do Bruce. If you’re staying here you’re going to be on Circus Time and that means getting up at six.” He says.

Bruce frowns. There’s that scowl again. He rolls over away from Dick. Stubborn. Dick can’t help but smile a little as he lifts Bruce out of bed and sets him on his feet.

Bruce scowls at him.

“Get dressed.” Dick tells him. “I’ve got some hand-me-downs of Davey’s, they should fit you.”

Dick points them out. Bruce picks up the T-shirt like it’s a dead rat and Dick chuckles.

“I mean it about breakfast.” He warns Bruce as he goes to change himself.

Bless twenty-four-hour shopping. After he put Bruce to bed he’d texted a few of the circus’s other night owls still out on the town and they’d agreed to pick up the essentials for him, toothpaste and so on. A proper shopping trip would have to wait until their next show in Metropolis but a lot of the performers had children with them and clothes got passed around as needed.

Dick chuckles to himself as he throws on his clothes. No doubt it’s the first set of clothing Bruce has had that cost less than a hundred dollars. When he’s done he sees Bruce plucking at the front of the shirt and looking confused, like he’s wondering where the buttons are. Dick beams and slaps a sunhat on him. Bruce pulls it up and looks up at him from under the brim.

“You didn’t tell me you were a cop.” Bruce accuses him.

“Eh.” Dick wobbles a hand to indicate ‘kind of’. “Not exactly a cop. I have a badge, that’s the important thing.”

“Can I see it?” Bruce asks.

Dick rummages through the glove box until he finds it and tosses the badge case to him. Bruce fumbles but manages to catch it before it hits the ground. He immediately studies the badge closely, his forehead creasing as he frowns.

“I don’t know what this means.” He eventually confesses.

Dick laughs.

“I’ll explain when you’re older.” He says and takes the badge back. “For now, let’s just say it’s very impressive and official, and you have to keep it a secret.”

“Alright.” Bruce nods. He’s clearly glad to be entrusted with something important.

Dick doesn’t think he would telling anyone, the circus regulars knew anyway, but he was a good judge of character. Bruce looked like the kind of boy who would hoard secrets, taking a pleasure in being trusted to guard that knowledge.

He plucks at the shirt again and frowns.

“Too good for Green Lantern?” Dick asks him as he leads him to the food tent.

“I don’t think green is my color.” Bruce tells him.

“We can get some more clothes after we set up for our Metropolis show.” Dick promises him. “We might even see Superman!”

Bruce frowns and Dick laughs.

“There’s that famous Gotham disdain.” He teases.

“I don’t see why Superman would come to see a circus.” Bruce says and folds his arms.

“Just between you and me, it’s because Superman’s a huge dork.” Dick tells him and he swears he can see a hint of a smile on Bruce’s face. “Keep an eye out for me; if you catch him hovering then we’ll get to charge him admission.”

“Alright.” Bruce sets his face in grim determination and throws a suspicious look at Dick. “Can you fly too?” He asks.

“Why would you ask that Kiddo?” Dick ruffles his hair.

“I saw your show, before I decided to run away here. It looked like you were flying.” Bruce points out.

“No powers here, just a bit of talent and a whole lot of practice.” Dick tells him. “Nearly anyone can learn to do it if they have the guts to stick with it.”

Bruce nods and frowns again, clearly deep in thought.

“Teach me to do it.” He orders.

“Manners Bruce.” Dick scolds him and Bruce quickly looks at his feet, silently seething with anger at being corrected.

“ _Please_ teach me to do it.” Bruce swallows his pride and asks.

“It’s a lot of work Bruce. You’d get bored and give up.” Dick tells him.

“No I wouldn’t!” Bruce protests and stamps his foot.

“Because you’re clearly the paragon of patience.” Dick points out mildly and Bruce blushes with a mixture of embarrassment and anger.

“Please teach me Dick.” Bruce asks, far softer. “I want…I want to be able to do _something, anything…_ ”

Bruce’s shoulders start to shake, like he’s going to break down in tears, hit him, or both. Dick realizes he’s upset him and is quick to reassure him. He rests a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Hey now, if you’ve got the guts to stick with it I suppose I can teach you a few things, but you have to listen to me and no complaining. You have to learn to walk before you can run and that means drilling the basics until you can do them in your sleep, alright?” Dick tells him.

“It’s a deal.” Bruce says and nods solemnly, like he had just signed a legally binding contract.

Dick makes it his new goal to see him smile. There had to be something he could do to make the kid’s eyes light up…

As Dick knew it would be breakfast is half over by the time they step into the tent. Bruce immediately clings to him, recoiling defensively at the sight of so many people at once.

“Hey Grayson, you know the rules, last one in cleans up, right?” A clown puts a hand on Dick’s shoulder as he leaves. “Our illustrious owner oughta do some of the hard work for once.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know the rules Harris. I had to get the little one out of bed first.” Dick says.

Dick puts a hand on Bruce’s shoulder to comfort him. Bruce still flinches as the clown looks down at him.

“Never figured we were going to Gotham to get ya kid, is he whatzaname’s, the one that sounds like a spice?” The clown asks.

“Kori, Kori Anders and no, he’s not hers.” Dick tells him. “But I’m looking after him all the same.”

“Welcome to Haly’s kid.” Harris offers his hand to shake.

Bruce doesn’t say anything, just clings closer to Dick’s side and watches with wary eyes.

“Shy little scrap of a thing aren’t ya?” The clown says to Bruce. “Best of luck to ya.”

He strides off whistling a show tune and Bruce turns his wide eyes back to Dick.

“Look at you, clinging to me like a baby bat.” Dick says with a note of teasing in his voice.

Bruce pulls a face and lets go but stays close.

“I hate bats. They’re scary.” He says.

“You don’t have to be scared here Bruce, the circus, all of us performers, we’re like one big family.” Dick tells him. “I’m sure they’ll be your friends if you let them.”

Bruce frowns.

“I don’t need friends.” He says in a tiny voice.

“Allies then.” Dick rolls his eyes. “Everyone here has something they can teach you. If you want to learn it the first step is being polite.”

“They’re watching me.” Bruce points out quietly. “Not in a polite way.”

They are, nearly everyone in the tent has at least snuck a look at them. Dick can’t blame them for being curious; he had never seen himself as a father figure, suddenly acquiring an eight-year-old ward must be as much of a surprise to them as it was to him. He doesn’t think any of them are aware of who Bruce was, or at least they didn’t know what danger he was in. If they did know Dick doesn’t think they’d do anything. He had bought the circus over a decade ago from the last Haly, he just kept the name for sentimental reasons, everyone knew he was the boss and anyone who even thought of harming a child would be out without a second thought.

“They want to know what kind of person you are Bruce.” Dick tells him. “No-one cares if you’re rich or an orphan, well no-one cares very much, but they won’t abide a slacker or a whiner or a squealer. They want to know if you’ve got the guts to be one of us or if you’ll run when the going gets tough, which unfortunately means there’s going to be a bit of hazing. I’ll step in if things go too far but I won’t be able to watch you all the time. You gotta be ready for it.”

He grabs a stack of buttered toast and puts a cereal bowl in the kid’s hands.

“The main thing is to not react; you saw that with the Colonel yesterday. When they’re all worked up and you’re sitting there cool as a cucumber, then you’ve won already. I don’t want to hear you’ve been getting into fights with the other kids, the moment you throw a punch you’ve lost ‘cause you let them get to you.” Dick advises and takes a bite of toast. “That said, if you can outsmart them, beat them at their own game…It’s fair play.”

Bruce nods. Dick fills his bowl with cornflakes and adds milk.

“Good now eat up, we’ve got a long day ahead.” He tells him and gives him a few slices of toast. “We’re performing in Metropolis tonight, that’s a circus we, not a you and me we.” He clarifies, naming Gotham’s closest neighbor.

Bruce had visited Metropolis before and hadn’t been too impressed. It was too bright, too shiny, too modern for his tastes. You could see the history in Gotham whenever you looked at a building; even the newer ones were made to match the character of the city. His father had laughed at the Gotham-Metropolis rivalry. It’s easier to hate someone you could see every day, he had said.

Suddenly Bruce isn’t hungry any more. He’s trying not to cry.

“Deep breaths. In for ten seconds, out for ten seconds.” Dick instructs him. “It’ll pass, like a wave.”

Bruce doesn’t question how Dick knows, he breathes in and counts in his head. The urge to cry fades but his appetite doesn’t come back.

“It gets easier.” Dick says softly. “It doesn’t get better but it gets easier.”

“When does it _stop_?” Bruce mutters.

“…I don’t know. Maybe never.” Dick tells him.

Bruce appreciates that he isn’t lying to him.

“I want to cut out the part that hurts.” His hand twitches as if reaching for an invisible weapon.

“Then you wouldn’t be able to feel anything again.” Dick says.

“Maybe that would be better…” Bruce says, almost to himself.

“Feeling isn’t a weakness Bruce.” Dick tells him. “It’s what tells us we’re alive. You’re wounded, not in your body, but you’re wounded all the same. There’s no shame in being wounded.”

Dick looks him in the eyes.

“As long as you’re alive that wound will heal. It will leave scars but it will hurt less. I promise.” He says softly. “It’s okay to be hurt, we don’t forget but we move forward.”

“…Okay.” Bruce says quietly.

“You’re a brave kid.” Dick tells him and ruffles his hair. “They’d be proud of you.”

He picks up Bruce’s half-empty cereal bowl, with a few soggy cornflakes floating in it, and stands. Bruce stands too and realizes the tent has emptied since they’ve been talking. He turns towards the exit and Dick stops him with a hand on the shoulder.

“Not so fast Kiddo. It’s time to clean up.” He says.

Bruce frowns.

“Yes, Bruce, I am a terrible person who is going to force you to dirty your hands with manual labor.” Dick teases.

Bruce pulls a face. Dick laughs.

“It’s not as bad as you think. I find it quite relaxing actually.” Dick confesses. “If you want to be independent you should at least clean up after yourself.”

Bruce still looks unimpressed.

“Can’t I just watch for today?” He asks.

“No can do buddy.” Dick tells him. “Everyone pulls their weight here, if you’re going to run away with the circus you’ve got to commit.”

Bruce frowns and chews his lip, clearly working up to something.

“I…I don’t know what to do.” He confesses in a hushed whisper.

Dick laughs and Bruce’s face falls further. His hands curl into fists and he glares angrily at the ground.

“I’m not making fun of you Bruce.” Dick quickly reassures him. “I’ll show you what to do, everyone’s a beginner at some point.”

He stacks the bowl with the rest of the dirty dishes and wheels the cart to wash-up. Bruce follows behind him, still warily peeping around corners. He looks like he’s scared he’s going to be hit or yelled at any second now and Dick feels a cold rage building inside him. Barbara had always told him he was too quick to anger when someone else was in trouble. Broody hen was a phrase she used. Martyr complex was another. It didn’t stop him from wanting to drop kick the colonel the next time he saw him. Hopefully his tempered would cool by the next time they were in Gotham or the colonel would see just what this circus boy could really do…

He runs the water for the dishes and adds a lashing of dish-soap until the hot water was foaming with bubbles. He pulls on the rubber gloves, noting Bruce is watching him intently.

“I’ll wash, you can dry.” Dick tells him and tosses him a dishtowel. “This water is really hot.”

He scrubs Bruce’s bowl first and puts it in the rack. Bruce picks it up, then flinches at the heat and drops it. Dick bends dramatically and catches it an inch from the floor.

“Okay, first lesson, wrap the towel around your hands before touching the dishes, my bad, I should have warned you.” Dick says sheepishly. “Let me see your hands, you didn’t get burned did you?”

“Just surprised.” Bruce confesses, putting on a brave face. His fingertips are pink but Dick knows burns and this isn’t anything to worry about. “You caught it really fast.” He adds.

“Practice.” Dick tells him. “I’ve dropped my fair share of bowls.”

He shows Bruce how to wrap the dishtowel around his hands to shield them from the heat then how to wipe down a bowl in the quickest, most efficient way.

“Think you’ve got it?” Dick asks him.

Bruce nods, his jaw set with determination. He’s still uncertain but he wants to learn which is the biggest thing. He really is committed to this.

“Alright then, let’s get started.” He fires up his 80’s playlist. “Training montage, yeah!”

Bruce gives him a skeptical look.

“This is training?” He asks.

“Uh…I guess…Hmmm.” Dick thinks for a moment as he tries to work out what he wants to say. “Its like wax on, wax off.” Dick settles on.

Bruce frowns.

“You have to wax dishes?” He asks.

“No, no, haven’t you ever seen the karate kid?” Dick asks him.

Bruce shakes his head.

“I know what we’re doing later then.” Dick says cheerfully. “I’ve got all the classics!”

“Like Odysseus?” Bruce is confused.

“No, all the _movie_ classics; Karate kid, Rocky, the Princess Bride.” Dick lists off. “Anyway the point I was trying to make before I got distracted by the prospect of an 80s movies marathon is that you’ve got to build up your body, things like balance, agility and raw strength, and chores do this while also accomplishing something useful.”

He gets started on the dishes.

“Most chefs spend their first month washing dishes.” Dick tells him. “It teaches endurance, muscle memory, urgency and the most important of life’s lessons…”

“What’s that?” Bruce asks as he takes the first bowl from him and dries it off.

“That no matter what you’re doing there will always be dirty dishes.” Dick says sagely and blows a wisp of bubbles off a bowl. “It’s very deep and metaphorical.”

“What are dirty dishes metaphorical for?” Bruce asks but there is a hint of a smile lurking at the corners of his lips.

“Dishes that are dirty.” Dick tells him and that smile grows a fraction of an inch.

Dick keeps up a continuous chatter as they work their way through the pile of dirty dishes, mostly to fill the silence Bruce is leaving behind. He’s still tensed with fight-or-flight reflex and Dick isn’t sure if it’s because of trauma or the treatment of his so-called ‘family’. If he finds out it’s the later…There will be words, the kind of quote words unquote that were a euphemism for punching the shit out of them, as Jason charmingly put it. He does get to see, out of the corner of his eye, the small fragile smile of someone scared to smile. He doesn’t acknowledge it, knowing that doing so will make Bruce retreat behind his walls, but it is an encouraging sign Bruce hasn’t killed his heart just yet.

They get the washing done on schedule, which is good because they need to be on the road in time for their night show in Metropolis. Dick sits Bruce in the trailer with the TV and his movie collection as the circus leaves town. As they pull out of the fairground all they leave behind is the impressions of tent-pegs in the earth and a few loose ticket stubs blowing in the breeze.

“You going to be alright Bruce?” Dick asks him as he keeps an eye on his passenger through the rear-vision mirror. “We won’t be back until next year.”

Bruce is looking out the window at the city streets he had known his entire life passing by. He seems to be making up his mind about something, calculating, making some kind of plan or an oath. When he raises his middle finger in the traditional salute to the city Dick knows he has no regrets about leaving. Also, he will have to be careful Bruce doesn’t learn any more rude gestures while on the road.

 “When I see you again I’m going to be different.” Bruce quietly tells the skyline.

“That’s the spirit.” Dick tells him.

Bruce watches until the buildings turn to shadows and then mere smears of shadow on the horizon before he looks away. He settles down and slots a DVD into the player. Dick smiles to himself as he hears the Karate Kid starting up.

Aside from a few token complaints the movie is cheesy Bruce seems happy to sit back and watch. He’s a quiet kid, though Dick doesn’t know if that’s because of what he’s been through or if he’s just naturally that way.

Compared to Gotham Gothic the streets of Metropolis have the clean gleaming edge of what people from the 1960s thought ‘a city of the future’ should look like. Dick thinks there’s a charmingly naive optimism to it that matched its protector. The s was everywhere, from street vendors hocking unofficial merchandise to graffiti that would make the man himself very disappointed if he caught them doing it. They are well within the city limits by the time the movie ends and Bruce judges it to be not worth selecting a new one.

“Ready for more manual labor?” Dick asks him as the circus pulls into the Metropolis fairgrounds.

Bruce nods, a determined look in his eyes.

“Good, we’ve got a lot of work to do before tonight’s show.” Dick tells him. “A lot of hard work goes into making a show, but it’s worth it in the end.”

Bruce follows close at his side, slow to ask for help, quick to over-exert himself and chewing at his lip with frustration any time he needs to be corrected but he works without complaining. Dick keeps a close watch on him out of the corner of his eye. Bruce doesn’t like to be more than arms reach from him, in case he needs to hide, and he avoids conversation as much as possible but he is determined to help and doesn’t complain. That counts for a lot here.

Dick does his best to keep the attention off him as they set up. He jokes and chats with the rest of the circus while keeping close enough to reassure Bruce he’s here for him. He doubts any of them recognize who Bruce is but they are ready to humor a shy kid who wants to work with his pa and the rest of the grown-ups. They catch on pretty quick that he doesn’t want to talk so they stick with question he can answer with a nod or shake of his head.

By the time they stop for lunch they’ve already started to teach Bruce the old circus songs. He won’t leave Dick’s side but he is smiling, just a little. When they tether the last rope firmly and the big top is standing tall and proud Bruce is positively beaming with pride at a job well done. Dick pulls him into a one-armed hug and ruffles his hair.

“Good job.” He tells Bruce and is treated to a genuine smile from him. “You deserve a reward; we’ve got some time before the show so let’s go shopping.”

The circus has one ordinary car for running errands, battered and muddied and entirely unlike any car Bruce has been in before. There are old receipts on the floor and an old, thankfully empty, McDonald’s cup bounces off Bruce’s foot as Dick drives them away from the fairgrounds and into the city.

“You’ve done a lot today.” Dick’s tone softens now it’s just the two of them. “Are you holding up okay? I know it must be new for you.”

Bruce nods.

“I like working.” He says. “It makes me feel useful.” He flexes his fingers, casting around for words. “When I’m working I don’t have time to think about…” His voice trails off.

Dick nods in acknowledgement. Displacement was far from the worst coping mechanism Bruce could be leaning towards. He’d still have to keep an eye on it. A familiar sign on the road jogs his memory. Hell, they’ve been working all day, they deserve it. Tim did say they had the best milkshakes in Metropolis.

Dick flicks on the indicator and pulls into the drive-thru.

“Okay then, important question, do you want a milkshake?” Dick asks him. “I’m getting one.”

Bruce nods.

“Yes please.” He says.

“What kind?” Dick asks him and he looks over the menu. “Oh, they have pie!”

Dick gets a banana milkshake and a slice of apricot pie. Bruce gets a honeycomb milkshake and a slice of apple pie which he eats in the car with all the joy of a child doing something they’re not supposed to, but with adult permission. Dick wordlessly slides him his own piece of pie when he catches the kid eyeing it. Bruce is idly sipping at his milkshake by the time they actually get to the clothing store. Maybe he didn’t need to order the large for them both…

“I’m warning you now there’ll be nothing fancy.” Dick tells him as he kills the engine. “They’re a surplus store, not a boutique, but you can pick what you want and it will be yours, alright?”

Bruce’s eyes widen at the heady power of being able to pick all your own clothes at age eight.

“Really?” He asks in disbelief.

“Within reason.” Dick amends.

Bruce is abuzz with excitement, as soon as they reach kids wear he dives into the racks. He quickly pulls three shirts from the mix. He hooks them over his arms, rifling through the racks at speed. He compares each new shirt with his favorites in a quick way that makes Dick think of a tournament. The losers are returned to the rack, the winners dumped into the cart.

“Cute kid.” The one member of staff in this part of the store tells him.

“Isn’t he?” Dick smiles proudly.

He half-makes small talk with the girl and half-flirts as Bruce goes over every inch of the store with a fine-toothed comb to make sure he’s seen everything and found the best. At first, he stops every ten seconds or so to check that Dick is still there. When does Dick makes sure to make eye contact with him and acknowledge him with a nod. Once he’s satisfied Dick isn’t going to go anywhere without him Bruce feels more comfortable moving to the racks further away. His shirt is as good as a beacon, it really shines against the more muted colors that were in fashion.

“You’re right, I don’t think green is your color.” Dick tells him when Bruce is finally satisfied and wheels the trolley over to him. There are at least ten black shirts piled on each other.

“The shade really is obnoxious.” Bruce agrees.

Dick laughs.

“Blame Davey for having some civic pride in Coast City.” He says. “He says you’ve got to cheer for your own heroes.”

“Gotham doesn’t have a hero.” Bruce muses. “They help sometimes but they don’t stay.”

“…That’s true.” Dick notes the sad edge in his voice. Heroes did stop in Gotham, and for a time things would get better, but the city always wore then down in the end. Red Hood, Red Robin, Spoiler, Signal, all of them had tried to save the hungry city. All had failed. Some survived.

“If Gotham had a hero they wouldn’t have died.” Bruce says.

Dick doesn’t want to tell him the truth; even heroes can’t save everyone. He wishes the world was so simple. It would make everything easier.

“Are you planning on getting anything that’s not black?” He asks instead.

“I like black.” Bruce says defensively.

“You’ll be working outside Bruce, and black absorbs heat. You’re going to cook.” Dick says and picks a random shirt from the pile.

It’s a Gotham one, not something he expected to see outside of the city, but surplus had to come from somewhere and if anyone would find this it would be Bruce. He recognizes the simple red emblem above the text in spidery white writing ‘Remember Red Hood.’

“They’re still making stuff with his sign on it?” Dick asks. “I have a friend who’ll be happy to hear that.”

Bruce nods emphatically.

“He died for us. We remember him.” He says with more sincerity than Dick was expecting from the young cynic. “It’s a Gotham thing.”

The Red Hood had died protecting the city from a threat that would have wiped it off the map and, in a rare display of emotion for the normally cold-hearted city, the underdog hero had become a symbol of hope after his death. Even kids as young as Bruce picked up on it.

Dick sighs.

“Alright you can keep three, and only three of these.” He makes a compromise. “Go for whites and grays if you want to stick with neutral tones rather than bright colors, but these are work clothes not fashion clothes. You’re going to be outside and it’s going to get hot.”

In the end Dick buys him four pairs of shoes, ten shirts and seven pairs of pants, not including the set of swim trunks and two sets of pajamas, but including the Red Hood shirt. Bruce hugs the plastic bag to his chest all the way back to the fairground. Dick makes sure he doesn’t see the total as he goes through the self-checkout, he had spent more than he was planning on and, really, more than he should for a circus performer’s salary, but he couldn’t resist. A smile that innocent needed to be protected.

That night Bruce sits in the seats he had helped build and keeps an eye out for flying men. The only one he sees is Dick, though it’s hard to take his eyes off him. Dick flies far better than any alien could. He is yawning by the time the show finishes and his entire body is aching, it’s a good ache, of hard work.

Dick sits up with him and puts on a movie. Bruce tries to pay attention but things are going in one ear and out the other and the blankets are so warm…He leans against Dick’s shoulder and blinks, his eyelids feeling heavier and heavier until they close and he doesn’t have the strength to reopen them.

Bruce is shocked awake by a nightmare that was little more than a memory.

He looks around rapidly, his sleepy brain projecting the much larger manor bedroom on top of the trailer for a second. For three more seconds he doesn’t know where he is until the memory of the past two days comes rushing back to him.

Dick isn’t here.

His mouth goes dry as he grips the blankets and tries to remember the breathing exercise Dick taught him. The shadows loom in, oppressive and dangerous. He can’t close his eyes without a sharp note of panic jolting him back awake. He scolds himself, he wasn’t a baby that needed a hug from mommy every time he had a bad dream was he? He shouldn’t be bothering Dick over little things like this. It doesn’t help.

Bruce slips out of bed.

“Your boy’s up.” An unfamiliar voice says from outside. “I can hear his heartbeat.”

There are two hazy silhouettes outside the window but as Bruce pushes the door open the second one disappears like an optical illusion. Dick is alone leaning against the side of the trailer.

“Hey there Bruce.” Dick says fondly. “Bad dream?”

Bruce nods but his words are sticking in his throat. He can’t ask Dick to sleep in the same bed as him, it’s too pathetic.

Dick stretches.

“Just getting some air.” He says and he’s lying but Bruce is too tired to call him out on it.

He leads Bruce back inside and climbs into bed next to him without being asked. As he cuddles up to him Bruce is too grateful to ask about the other voice he heard and by the time morning comes around he has forgotten all about it.


	3. Opal City

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some bullying, some blood, disassociation and gy*sy being used as a racial slur by racist idiots.

Bruce wakes up with his limbs aching from the work of setting up and does the stretches Dick taught him to work the stiffness from his limbs. He was getting used to the cycle of packing up, moving, setting up, then repeating.

‘School' had started up again, though it was very different from his school in Gotham. It was mostly taught by Dick in the trailer between cities and part of it was taught with the rest of the circus kids.

The circus kids didn’t like him and he didn’t like them either. They spoke in a whole other language that Dick called Circus Cant or Polari, a mixture of Italian, Romani and backslang that Bruce could about recognize as a language and that was it. He sat stubbornly apart from the rest of the group, trying to observe, but they insisted on pulling him in to make fun of him and look down on him for not knowing the language.

Bruce had picked up a few things. He knew when they were talking about the ‘rube’ they meant him. He preferred to stay behind the group, not saying anything but watching closely and, while it didn’t get him included, he at least didn’t get into any fights.

Today was a performance day and Bruce shadows Dick until he’s sure that Dick isn’t busy with manager stuff before he goes to him.

“They sent me to get the key to the midway which I figure wasn’t real so I came to find you.” Bruce says. “Nay, if our wits run the wild-goose chase, I am done; for thou hast more of the wild goose in one of thy wits than, I am sure, I have in my whole five.” Bruce quotes. “It’s from Shakespeare.”

“Romeo and Juliet, I believe.” Dick replies.

“They tried to tell me that a Snipe escaped from the menagerie first but then I told them I’d need their sniper rifle to catch it then and they gave up.” Bruce says. “I don’t see why you’d have a snipe in the menagerie anyway. No-one would believe you.”

“You’ve already heard that one huh?” Dick adds.

Bruce nods.

“Snipe are wetland birds, like sandpipers, with long delicate beaks.” He adds. “Really the only impressive thing about them is their irregular flight pattern. You have to be really accurate and well camouflaged to hit one, that’s why people that could were called snipers.”

Dick makes a mental note to look this up later. Bruce doesn’t seem like he’s lying but he’d been sent on a snipe hunt as a kid and was pretty sure they weren’t real.

“I suppose I should ask you, do you have the key to the midway?” Bruce asks with a dead serious expression.

Dick laughs.

“As your legal guardian you’ve been sent on a fool’s errand, but as a Carny I am obligated to tell you it has been moved to the other side of the fairground.”

“Do I have to go?” Bruce asks.

“Might as well.” Dick tells him. “It’s a test to see if you’ll listen to orders without needing to have them explained. When you’re working in the circus if someone yells ‘duck!’ it’s best not to stand around asking ‘why?’, get it?”

Bruce nods solemnly.

“Do I have to go now?” He asks.

“Nah, you officially have permission to wander for as long as you want before going back.” Dick tells him.

He pulls open the trailer door and an empty plastic cup rolls down the steps and bounces onto the floor. Bruce looks over the mess within.

“‘If you want to be independent you should at least clean up after yourself.’” He quotes back at Dick.

“Throwing that right back at me huh smart mouth?” Dick says with a smile. “Fair’s fair, think you can hold the trash bag open for me while I clean?”

“Training montage?” Bruce raises an eyebrow.

“Training montage.” Dick smiles.

Bruce sits on the stairs, idly swinging his legs to 80s pop and holding the rubbish bag, as Dick unearths his laundry basket from his dirty laundry pile. His eyes skitter over the fairgrounds, looking at nothing until he notices Davey, the strongman’s son, approaching the trailer.

Davey’s eyes go from Dick to Bruce then go cold and Bruce realizes something; he’s jealous Dick is spending time with him.

Bruce decides to test his hypothesis and tightly hugs Dick around the middle as soon as he gets the chance.

“Woah there, I love you too buddy.” Dick says and wraps an arm around Bruce’s waist as he examines a crumpled t-shirt with his other hand and gives it a sniff to see if it is dirty. Davey’s eyes grow colder and Bruce sticks out his tongue at him.

For the circus kids Dick had been like a second or third parent to them, they had to be afraid Bruce was taking Dick away from them, but Bruce didn’t care. Dick was _his_ now and they were just going to have to get used to it.

Dick crumples the shirt into a ball and shoots it basketball style into the laundry basket.

“Think that’s everything, what do you think?” Dick asks Bruce.

Bruce looks over the trailer and gives a grim nod of approval. The small space probably isn’t up to Alfred’s standards but it’s organized at least. There’s nothing left on the floor or knocked over or lying around.

“Good.” Dick smiles and ruffles his hair. “Now run along, your friend is waiting for you.”

Bruce scowls in Davey’s direction, unsure if Dick is innocent enough to think Davey really came looking for _him_ or if Dick’s just throwing him in the deep end. Dick did seem pretty adamant about this ‘making friends’ thing.

Davey scowls back.

“You think you’re funny?” He says with a clear Coast City accent as soon as Dick is out of earshot.

Bruce shrugs with one shoulder, a non-answer that just makes Davey grumpier. Bruce keeps his dark eyes focused on the other boy’s back, looking out for any sign he’s going to resort to violence.

“You’re not even real circus folk.” Davey tells him and folds his arms. “You’re just a charity case he lets tag along because he feels sorry for you.”  

Bruce shrugs again and doesn’t stop watching. Davey’s lip curls in disgust.

“You’re a creep, you know that?” He says.

“I’ve been told.” Bruce says neutrally.

Davey kicks at the ground.

“You got the key?” He asks.

“Not yet.” Bruce replies. “I’ll get to it.”

There is a second of wary eye contact between the two as they size each other up.

“We’re going to the river.” Davey says and kicks at the ground again. “Don’t come ‘round until you have that key.”

“Alright.” Bruce says mildly and watches as Davey leaves to join the rest of his circus friends.

The ‘river’ here wasn’t the kind you could swimming in, it was a bare strip of brown water bordered by loose stones on the far side of the port the town was built around. He wasn’t sure what they were going to do hanging around a place like that but he didn’t care.

Bruce kind of wants to go back and spend more time around Dick; he knows that Dick at least wanted him, but he was trying to be independent. Even though Dick never complained Bruce knew he was just getting under everyone’s feet. Dick wasn’t just his legal guardian, he was a performer and the circus’s owner; he had better things to do than run around after a sad little kid.

Bruce had decided he was going to be independent; he wasn’t going to be a burden on anyone. He was going to get stronger and deal with his own problems, then Dick wouldn’t have to look after him all the time.

He didn’t quite know how he was going to achieve that just yet but he was working on it. Right now, he was observing. People-watching was a newfound hobby of his; he liked seeing what he could work about someone just by watching. The tricky part was finding a way to do it where no-one caught him watching them. He was training himself to be still, to become part of the background, but it was harder than it looked. Eventually, however, he gets bored of looking over the circus and slips away. Dick was adamant about this whole ‘making friends’ thing and he doesn’t want to get in trouble again. Dick didn’t yell at him, or hit him or take away his food or anything but he said he was disappointed in such a small sad way it made Bruce feel guilty for letting him down. Bruce practises being quiet as he slips away from the caravans, across the bare wastelands of dying grass that bordered the fairground and down the concrete slope of the retaining wall.

The river bed was half inside the fairgrounds, technically, a long stretch of gravel grit littered with the stubs of cigarettes and the paper shells of burned out fireworks, where teenagers came to drink and only a thick band of muddied brown water separated the fairgrounds from the city. They probably shouldn’t be here unsupervised but that made it more appealing for a group of bored children. There was no risk of anyone wanting to swim in the brown sludge of a river so there was no risk of drowning. Technically Zenya was eighteen and was supposed to be watching over them, but in more practical terms she leant against the concrete retaining wall out of the wind, occasionally looking up from her phone to make sure no-one was hurt.

The kids are tossing rocks into the water, trying to find one among the stony river bed large enough to properly skip. They pry pebbles from the shoreline and compete to see how far they can throw them across the river. The river here is deep but skinny enough for some pebbles to clatter against the opposite bank.

Zenya catches sight of him, smiles a fraction, and goes back to her phone. Bruce wishes he could sit behind her and just watch the others too, but he should be giving this friends thing a try for Dick.  

He tries to avoid being noticed as much as possible, hanging back and using all his people-watching training to try and blend in. He’s half successful; he gets some looks that make it obvious the other kids know he’s there but they don’t make any effort to include him or talk with him so he’s happy. He knows he’s being excluded on purpose but he preferred watching than playing.

Bruce stands between Zenya and the rest of the kids and tries to work out the game they’re playing without asking about it.

The circus kids are taking it in turns to throw three rocks each across the muddied water, by now Bruce knows the Polari for numbers so he knows they are calling out point scores after each throw. The river has been divided into four score zones, numbered one to three then one again, where the one-point zone is the zone closest to either bank. From what Bruce can gather the amount of times a skimmed stone bounces in each zone is the number of points gained for one throw. The challenge seems to be getting the stone over halfway to the opposite bank, in the three-point zone, without over-extending the throw to the second one-point shore zone. Minor arguments are breaking out all the time between the thrower and their audience of spotters over where the point boundaries are. The river flows sedately onwards, not caring about the fuss being made over it.

Bruce stays still and quiet as he tries to work out who is winning. One of the unspoken rules of circus games was you never tallied your points out loud, otherwise everyone would gang up on you to drag you back down. The ones most confident in their throws are coming third or fourth; it’s the two who have figured out how to shorten their throws to precisely half-way that have the most points and are trying not to draw attention to it.

Bruce is focused on trying to work out the exact ranking until a crunch of footsteps on the gravelly river bank startles his awareness back to the world in general.

They are no longer alone by the river.

On the other river bank are walking five people from town, part way between kids and teenagers. Bruce judges them all to be older than him but none of them are older than Zenya. Their clothes are more expensive than the circus kid’s hand-me-arounds but don’t look much nicer; there’s a fashion for distressed clothing that means an ‘artistically’ faded shirt is sold for $50 more than a normal faded one. Bruce thinks it’s a stupid trend but Gotham fashion is its own ballpark, even when it comes to casualwear.

The game grinds to a halt as the two groups watch each other across the river. Even if he doesn’t know why it’s there Bruce can feel the tension in the air rise. It reminds him of two stray cats in an alleyway, sizing each other up.

Zenya frowns, pursing her plum lipstick lips as she slips her phone back into her pocket, and focuses fully on the group.

Bruce isn’t sure why there’s tension here; there’s nearly a mile of river total, all of it equally bleak and industrial, so he doesn’t know why anyone would claim it as territory, but the other group of kids are acting territorial.

The tension draws on, both groups just looking at each other past the deep muddy ribbon of the river that divided them. Bruce isn’t too worried. None of them are stupid enough to try and swim it; it’s moving too fast and the filthy water would ruin your clothes.

Bruce notices sides as forming; each group has chosen a leader and draws closer around them, trusting them to speak for them. On the Opal City side it is the oldest boy, Bruce puts him at about sixteen and actively looking for trouble, on their side it is the sword-swallower’s son Sinclair who was either third or fourth in the game and closer to his age.

“Steal any chickens lately Gypsy?” The boy on the other side of the river asks and Bruce recognizes it as a metaphorical slap in the face to start a duel.

“Chickens? Here?” Sinclair retorts. “What, you think we’re sneaking into your house to snag the chick roast outta ya freezer?”

“Might do.” The Opal City leader replies. “Gyps will steal anything that’s not nailed down.”

“And if it is they’ll steal the nails too!” Another city boy jokes.

The Opal City kids laugh a cold laugh, drawing themselves up, trying to make themselves look bigger.

“Get out of my city Gypsy.” Their leader says. “You’re stinking up our air.”

Sinclair shakes his head, not dignifying the Opal City boy with a response.

“Don’t be mean.” Bruce says quietly and is surprised to hear him saying out loud.

“What are you doing defending gypsies?” One of the younger city kids asks him. “You’re normal.”

Bruce feels isolated; his skin prickles with the feeling of eyes on him as both groups suddenly start to pay him attention. He wishes he could slip back into the shadows where he was safe but he had spoken and he can’t take that back. He isn’t sure he wants to.

Sure, he was standing apart from the other circus kids but it was obvious as soon as looking that he didn’t fit in with them. Zenya, with her matched plum lipstick and nail polish and her earrings handmade of polished brass wire wrapped around raw amethyst, she belonged. He didn’t. Probably he never would.

He stood apart. Fine. He stays quiet, not wanting to be the one who turned this into a fight, but not breaking eye contact or acting ashamed. He isn’t going to take back his words, he would stand beside them.

The silence draws on, thick and uncomfortable, as the confidence of the Opal City kids wilts under the quiet intensity of Bruce’s stare.

“You trying to put the evil eye on me Addams family?” The city kid leader asks accusingly.

Bruce shrugs with one shoulder.

“Just looking. Ain’t no law against that.” He replies calmly.

The silence draws on, the tension in the air rising until it’s stifling. Even Sinclair is looking to him now. Both sides are aware some kind of fighting was going on but not knowing what they should do to help.

Part of Bruce is intently focused yet floating, separate from himself, and Bruce realizes he’s disassociating. The memory of staring down the gunman is so stiff and heavy and dark in the air around him he swears he can hear the echoes of the gun shots reflecting from the alley walls ringing in his ears, overlaying the small wet sound of his mother struggling to breathe.

He’s never been more minutely aware of his surroundings but the body that stands tensed on the shore is stiff puppet suit whose strings he lacks the strength to pull. His tongue lies heavy like a warm slug in his mouth and his own breathing roars like the ocean in his ears.

“Go home Freak!” One of the Opal City kids yells and a loud ‘crack’ sounds in Bruce’s left ear, followed by a stinging pain on the same side of his head.

Bruce’s fingers go to his head and come back bloody. He looks at the red on his fingertips with confusion, to the stone the size of his fist smeared with red lying at his feet and back to the red blood on his fingers, before he realizes the city kid has thrown a rock at him. Another flung rock smacks into his shoulder, and the circus kids scatter, scrambling back up the bank to get out of range.

Bruce stands stunned, still unable to process what has happened, until Davey grabs his arm to drag him away and he can move his feet again. Blood is flowing down the side of his face, thick and warm and threatening to drip into his eyes and blind him. Another stone hits him in the back and it is going to bruise but doesn’t draw blood and he is running. They scramble back to the retaining wall to the hoots and jeers of the local kids.

Zenya bends down and scoops five pebbles from the riverbed and bows. That is when the fight is over because Zenya is the Knife thrower’s daughter.

Bruce doesn’t remember what happens after the rocks leave her hands, next thing he knows he is back in the fairgrounds. It’s like a real-life jump cut and if it wasn’t for the throbbing pain and the feeling of blood drying on his face he wouldn’t be sure any of it is real.

He blinks owlishly in the light as he tries to judge where he is from the caravans. He is being dragged along by his arm held by the sleeve by Zenya. Davey is leading the way, there is a mark on his cheek Bruce thinks is dirt for a moment before he realizes it is a bruise. He isn’t sure where the rest of the kids have gone, back to their parents probably. The pain in his head has lessened from a sharp sting to a dull throb and he isn’t sure if it’s just because of the episode he had that the world seems fuzzy around the edges. His body feels his again, rather than an unwieldy puppet, but he still can’t move his tongue. He isn’t sure what he’d say if he could, he feels like he should be asking questions, but the situation keeps slipping away from him.

Bruce looks up to try and determine the time of day from the sun’s position and stumbles on the uneven ground. Zenya frowns at him and Bruce wonders if he’s done this before. He worries he’s forgetting too much. He raises his hand to his forehead and feels the blood starting to set.

“Stop touching it.” Zenya snaps and Bruce quickly lowers his hand. The blood on his fingertips has dried and cracked and is starting to crumple away in flakes.

“Sorry.” He mutters under his breath.

Zenya looks worried and that makes him worried. Apart from the rock that cut his head there’s an aching pain in one shoulder and one on his back which means no new wounds he doesn’t remember getting. He follows wordlessly, as they weave their way through the caravans towards the main tent.

Bruce doesn’t want to go to the main tent.

The evening show is soon and Dick will be busy setting up. He feels guilty for starting the fight, knowing Dick is going to be disappointed and worried about him. He’d rather go back to the trailer and wait until Dick got back. He knew where the sticking plasters were, he could probably fix himself without help. That way he wouldn’t be interrupting things. Dick and everyone else worked really, really hard to make the show great and he hated to think he might ruin it because he was stupid and got into a fight.

He opens his mouth to tell Zenya this but then sees how much steel she has in her expression and closes his mouth again. He doesn’t want to make this worse, she looks upset.

Zenya drags him through the main entrance of the tent and quickly looks around. Bruce is impressed with how quickly she singles out Dick and finds the quickest way to get to him without getting in anyone’s way. He’d have to learn how to do that. Zenya gives a two-note whistle then raises the hand not holding Bruce and gives a short sharp wave to attract Dick’s attention.

Dick is on the stage with a copy of the schedule for tonight’s show in his hands. His eyes noticeably widen when he sees Bruce and Bruce tries to hide behind Zenya in shame.

Bruce, what happened?” Dick as he vaults off the stage and runs up to check the wound.

Bruce tries to avoid his eyes, feeling guilty for being hurt and making Dick worry about him.

“Some dumb townies threw rocks at us!” Davey tells him with enthusiasm. Clearly he was here because he was excited to break the news. “Zenya took care of them and it was awesome!”

“Never enter an ass-kicking contest with a porcupine.” Zenya parrots one of her father’s favourite phrases and Dick is too worried to scold her for it.

Davey turns back to Bruce.

“You’re a moron.” Davey says, with a tone that’s equal parts worried and angry. “Why didn’t you try to get out of the way?”

“I didn’t?” Bruce asks, thoroughly confused. “I don’t remember.”

“A concussion.” Dick diagnoses. “Comes with short term memory loss, hopefully minor.”

He sits Bruce down by the stage and Zenya and Davey leave the bandaging and scolding to him. Around them the show goes on, everybody moving, everybody talking, but no-one giving them a second glance. Bruce tenses when Dick looks at him but relaxes when he realizes he’s not in any trouble.

Bruce raises his hand to the blood congealing on his forehead. Dick grabs his hand and lowers it before he can pick at the wound. The blood has streaked dramatically down one cheek and is starting to set as a tacky red gel; head wounds always bled a lot and looked worse than they were. It doesn’t stop the fear he feels at the sight of blood streaked on the face of his charge. The only thing preventing him from panicking is the fact that if Bruce sees Dick’s worried he’s going to worry too. He keeps his face carefully calm as he gets the first aid kit from backstage. Thankfully it doesn’t look like the heavier duty medical supplies are going to be needed. It’s a sharp shock to his system seeing Bruce injured.

Dick wipes away the congealing blood with a disinfectant wipe. Bruce flinches at the cold sting of disinfectant as the white cloth rapidly turns red. The actual cut isn’t too large, an inch-long crescent that wouldn’t scar, and he has bandages in his first aid kit. Dick performs a quick medical examination; Bruce seems confused and Dick worries the concussion isn’t minor before he realizes that as a wealthy white boy this is probably the first time Bruce has encountered prejudice.

“This is my fault.” Dick mutters to himself as he makes sure the bandages are in place. “I shouldn’t have let you out of my sight.”

“Why would they throw rocks at us Dick?” Bruce asks in a hushed whisper. “Someone could have been hurt.”

“Someone was. You.” Dick reminds him. “And hate to break it to you Bud but you just had your first encounter with racism.”

Bruce frowns and Dick can see he’s thinking ‘but I’m white’ as clearly as if it had been written on his forehead.

“You never seen the Hunchback of Notre Dame buddy?” Dick asks him as he takes his hand.

Bruce shakes his head then winces as the rapid movement causes the pain in his head to spike.

“That’s another movie I’ll have to introduce you to.” Dick says with a small smile. "Some people just don’t like us travellers Bruce. It’s been that way for hundreds of years, they don’t like the fact we don’t stay in one place but for us home has always been where our family is, not where our caravan rests.”

Bruce pauses as he ponders this, then nods solemnly as he wraps his arms around Dick’s middle.

“You’re my family.” He says quietly and Dick feels tears threatening to well up in his eyes.

He rests a hand in Bruce’s dark hair.

“You’re my family too Bruce.” Dick says and the words seem to rest heavy on the air.

“I got my ass kicked.” Bruce mutters with his voice muffled by Dick’s shirt.

Dick laughs.

“You really did. What were you thinking?” He asks.

“Wasn’t really thinking.” Bruce mutters. “They were being mean and I didn’t like it.”

Dick sighs.

“I’m afraid people being mean is something that’s not going to stop.” Dick tells him. “But that doesn’t mean there’s nothing you can do about it. I’m going to get in touch with some friends of mine and see if they’d mind teaching you some things about fights, specifically how to avoid them and how to win them.”

Dick makes eye contact.

“If there’s going to be any ass-kickings you’re going to be the one dealing them out, understand?” He says seriously and Bruce begins to smile.


	4. Star City

The first of Dick’s ‘friends’ shows up in Star City in the early morning while they’re still setting up.

He wanders into the Fairgrounds with a look of mild amusement on his face. He’s getting under people’s feet and disrupting the work of setting up for their first show. He’s also over six foot and built like a brawler, hasn't shaved in three days and is wearing a long coat that smells like alcohol.

“This Haly’s?” The man asks him, even though the signs clearly say it is and they’re not open.

“Sure is.” Bruce replies and leans against the sign. The man is the first person he’s talked to in a long while with a Gotham accent. Bruce was just sweeping up, like he was supposed to, he was in no position to be bouncing drunks.

“Diamond district.” The man in the long coat snorts, naming the upper-class district.

“Bowery boy.” Bruce says back, naming the lower class one.

The two Gothamites watch each other like cats in an alleyway, curious as to where they stand. The older man’s eyes flit down to Bruce’s Red Hood T-shirt and he smiles.

“Jason Todd.” He extends a hand. “You must be Bruce.”

Bruce takes it and shakes it.

“You a friend of Dick’s?” He asks.

“Who isn’t?” Jason laughs and Bruce believes it, Dick is the most relentlessly friendly person he knows. No matter where the circus stops he always seems to have a friend there waiting to see him. “Actually, I’m here to see you Bruce.”

“Me?” Bruce frowns. “Why?”

Jason’s grin is wolfish.

“You ever heard of exposure therapy?”

Bruce hates exposure therapy. He throws up three times before lunch. Jason’s there every time Bruce feels sick to hide the gun from his sight and rub his back while he vomits. Jason can hide everything but the smell of cordite. Bruce prefers the smell of his own vomit to that.

“You’re a brave kid.” Jason tells him.

“I hate this.” Bruce says as he heaves up bitter acidic bile; all the actual food has left his stomach a long time ago.

“Exposure therapy sucks.” Jason agrees. “But it’s one of those what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger deals.”

“Have…Have you ever done this?” Bruce pants for air as his guts churn.

“Sure have, Dick too.” Jason tells him casually. He acts like helping a small child vomit into a bucket is an everyday thing for him and his cheeriness is starting to get on Bruce’s nerves. “Me for claustrophobia and him for fear of heights.”

“Dick…Dick was scared of heights?” Bruce asks. He can hardly imagine it. Dick belonged in the air, like a bird. It was like hearing a fish was afraid of water.

“Well it was more of a fear of falling.” Jason corrects himself. There’s more of a story behind his words but he’s not going to tell it. “You know the Riverwood Leap?” He asks.

Bruce nods. They had gone there in the summer to swim in the river and Dick had taught him how to do somersaults. There had been a slim path in the cliff-face, worn by generations of children’s feet, leading to a narrow ledge over the deepest part of the river. He’d been too nervous to jump at first, until Dick had made the jump beside him. It was a happy summer memory; he can’t reconcile the image of Dick’s smiling face with Dick being afraid.

“He went up there every day he could and jumped first ten, then twenty, then thirty times a day.” Jason says and smiles “Nearly caught hypothermia but the fear stopped paralyzing him see? He was determined he wouldn’t let it beat him. He was going to beat it. That’s what this is all about.”

“Why was Dick afraid of falling?” Bruce asks him.

Jason frowns.

“That’s his story to tell Bruce.” He says.

“Then what’s your story.” Bruce tries to keep his impatience from his tone. He wants to know everything now, not wait until they thought he was ready.

“Me? I was buried alive.” Jason says as if it was nothing.

Bruce’s eyes widen.

“ _Really_?” He asks in disbelief.

“Really.” Jason confirms. “Tore my way through a pinewood casket and six feet of dirt on sheer adrenaline, nearly bought it for real in the process. After that…” Jason shivers. “Any place small, any place dark, was like being back in that box. I’d wake up in the night and tear my blankets because they felt like dirt weighing me down. Dick taught me escapology. I can get through a pine box and six feet of dirt without breaking a sweat now.” Jason finishes with a proud smile. “I don’t freeze up, I can act.”

Bruce smiles back and nods, clearly making his mind up about something.

“One more time?” He asks.

Jason frowns.

“You sure? You’re running out of stuff to throw up. You don’t have to push yourself, either way it’s going to take time.” He says.

Bruce nods again and forces his stomach back under control.

“I’m sure. I am going to punch this fear in the face.”

“You’ve got guts kid.” Jason laughs. “Pity most of them have ended up in the bucket.” He stands. “Okay, once more time for luck…”

This time Bruce doesn’t throw up when Jason fires the gun, because he has nothing left in his stomach to throw up. He retches emptily over the bucket for a few minutes while his stomach protests before he forces it to settle.

“Done…” Bruce gasps. “I’m done.”

The freshly fired gun disappears back into the folds of Jason’s coat and the smell of cordite is masked by the slight spice of scotch whiskey that hung around Jason. Bruce can’t relax, he knows its there now, he knows Jason is hiding more instruments of death under that coat. His senses are screaming at him, not to fight or get away, just screaming.

“You did good kid.” Jason puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “I’m proud of you.”

Bruce closes his eyes and breathes out slowly. His stomach still churns but he doesn’t feel the acid rise in his throat anymore.

“Let’s slop this out and get some fresh air.” Jason says and picks up the bucket.

Bruce can’t follow him outside fast enough, to where the smells of popcorn, hot dogs and city life can wash the feeling of the gun from his skin.

Jason opens the cooler he had left by the door and pulls out a brown glass bottle with a label Bruce doesn’t recognize. He opens it with his thumb and drains half the bottle in two long gulps.

“Want one?” Jason asks and offers Bruce one of the brown glass bottles, with condensation beading on its side.

Bruce nods and Jason levers off the lid for him. Bruce takes it immediately, even though he’s well underage, and takes a swig. It’s not what he’s expecting and his face crinkles up.

“This is ginger ale.” He says.

 Jason laughs. He examines the label.

“Technically this is a Ginger Flavored Soft Drink, which is worrying. What are the FDA standards on calling something ginger ale?” He finishes the bottle. “I’m sober kid, have been for a while, I just find it’s handy to have people underestimate me. Pretending to be a drunk can get you into more places than a police badge and don’t tell Dick I said that.” Jason tells him.

“Don’t tell me what Jay?” Dick asks, folding his arms.

Jason grins his predatory smile.

“Want one?” He asks, pulling out another bottle of Gringer Ale.

He pitches it directly at Dick’s head, spiraling end over end, and Dick catches it easily. He opens the bottle and frowns as the ginger ale bubbles up and over his hand to splatter the ground. Taking a swig of the drink, he sits on the other side of Bruce.

“How are you?” He asks.

“Hungry.” Bruce says offhand. “When’s lunch?”

“Little soldier.” Jason says fondly and punches his shoulder.

Bruce smiles smugly and Dick ruffles his hair.

“He went all the way up to the gun firing in today’s session.” Jason tells Dick. “More than once, he insisted I throw him in the deep end.”

Dick’s eyes widen.

“Did you really?” He asks.

Bruce nods, a stubborn look in his eyes.

“I don’t want to be scared anymore.” He says. “I don’t want to freeze up, I want to be able to act.”

“That’s all well and good but don’t push yourself too far Bruce.” Dick warns.

“I won’t.” Bruce pouts.

“Flooding’s a legitimate treatment for PTSD.” Jason points out and raises his hands in mock surrender when Dick glares at him.

“I don’t want you to hurt yourself Bruce.” Dick warns him. “If it’s too much you don’t have to do it.”

“I know Dick.” Bruce rolls his eyes.

“Are you sassing me boy?” Dick says with a fond smile and pulls him into a one-handed hug.

“Maybe a little.” Bruce confesses. “Jason said you did this too.”

“Did he now?” Dick looks at Jason with his face an unreadable blank.

Jason looks sheepish but Bruce doesn’t notice. He nods.

“Yeah, he said you were scared of falling.” Bruce says.

“And did he say why?” Dick keeps his eyes on Jason’s face.

“Nah, he said I have to ask you.” Bruce looks up at him with wide innocent eyes and Dick quickly wipes the steely look from his face. “Why were you scared of heights?”

“Sounds like Uncle Jay’s been mouthing off.” Dick tells him and Jason chokes on his drink in surprise at being called an Uncle.

“Did I say something bad?” Bruce frowns.

“No, no, it’s not your fault. You were going to find out eventually, I suppose I should have told you earlier.” Dick tells him.

“You have too many secrets Dick.” Bruce tells him seriously and Dick glares at Jason again as he fails to suppress a laugh.

“Remember how I told you I lost my parents at your age too?” Dick continues.

Bruce nods. He wouldn’t forget.

“They died in Gotham.” Dick tells him. “No safety net for a Gotham performance see?”

Bruce remembers watching the show the night he decided to run away. All the performers looked like they were trying extra-hard to impress the audience.

“My family, the Flying Graysons, were the star act. The night that died it transpired that a low-level street thug aiming to be a boss by the name of Tony Zucco tried extorting the owner of the circus for protection money. When Mr Haly said no…”

Dick takes a deep breath to steady himself and Bruce notices Dick’s hand are slowly tightening into fists.

“He treated the ropes with acid, just enough to weaken them, and then when we went to perform…”

Dick’s voice gets stuck in his throat and he clears it.

“The ropes snapped. I was on the platform, my mother was reaching out her arms to me then…they fell and I…I couldn’t do anything but _watch._ ” He says with his voice quiet and on the verge of trembling.

Bruce hugs him tightly around his middle to Dick’s surprise. It is the kind of tight tug Dick used to comfort him.

“It’s going to be alright.” Bruce tells him and Dick can’t help but smile at how determined he sounds. He sweeps his fingers through Bruce’s hair.

“Thanks, little buddy.” Dicks tells him and confesses something that he shouldn’t be telling him but feels like he should have told him a long time ago. “The police thought it was an accident too, but I knew it wasn’t.”

Now Bruce’s eyes are as focused as a hawk and Jason is the one closely observing him with an expression that gives nothing away.

“Did you get him in the end, Tony Zucco?” Bruce asks with a look of surprising seriousness.

“…Yeah. Yeah I did.” Dick sighs.

“How?” Bruce asks immediately and when Dick turns towards him there is steel in his expression.

“Now _that_ is a story for another time.” Dick tells him and plants a kiss on Bruce’s forehead.

Bruce frowns.

“Go get lunch.” Dick tells him.

Bruce gives him a look that says he isn't happy but goes without protest.

“That was a spectacularly bad idea.” Jason tells him as soon as Bruce is out of earshot. “You shouldn’t be encouraging him to make conspiracy theories, you should be waiting until you have some evidence it was planned!”

“I _know_ it wasn’t an accident.” Dick insists. “I feel it in my gut.”

“So you’re giving the kid false hope over a bad burrito?” Jason folds his arms and looks unimpressed.

“Who’s the detective here?” Dick asks, looking offended.

“Seeing as you didn’t get your licence renewed after leaving the force, it’s me.” Jason replies.

“You passed the exam?” Dick is surprised. “Congratulations!”

“Don’t patronize me Grayson.” Jason scowls. “You’ve never given a damn about my personal life before, you’re not going to start now.”

Dick raises his hands in mock surrender and Jason snorts. It’s an old argument neither want to rehash and Dick quickly changes the subject back before they're butting heads again.

“Bruce deserves the truth Jason.” Dick points out.

“All of it?” Jason raises an eyebrow. “He’s a good kid, brave, smart, but you’re really going to tell him his parents were assassinated? That he’s here under witness protection? Who I am? Who _you_ are?”

“…Eventually.” Dick sighs. “I just want him to be _safe_ Jay.”

“With all due respect Dick, he’d be safer with the military nut.” Jason tells him.

“I’m not taking parenting advice from a guy that dresses like a drunken hobo.” Dick says and folds his arms.

Jason raises his hands in mock surrender.

“Point I’m trying to make is he’s a smart kid and this is a dangerous life you lead.” He says.

“I’m a consultant right now Jason.” Dick points out. “I only do day missions.”

“And how long is that going to last?” Jason asks him. “Are you really thinking of retiring?”

“No.” Dick sighs. “I’m not. I can’t leave him alone Jay. If he wakes up in the night and I’m not here for him…”

“You spend enough time gone during the day.” Jason points out.

“It’s different.” Dick says dismissively.

“Is it?” Jason raises an eyebrow. “What if you don’t come _back_ Dick? He’s going to find out sooner rather than later and I guarantee you won’t be ready for it.”

Jason makes serious eye contact and there is steel in his expression.

“Dick, you didn’t just call me so I could help him with gun phobia and some self-defense basics. You want me to train him, seriously train him.” He says.

“Like you said he’s a smart kid.” Dick says neutrally.

Jason breathes out a sigh.

“Shit, this is all going to blow up in your face.” Jason swears.

“Come on now, don’t be a pessimist ‘Uncle Jay.’” Dick playfully nudges him.

“Alright, alright.” Jason tries and fails to keep a smile from his face. “I’ll do some digging, get in touch with some of my less-than-legal associates, but only for the kid’s sake.” He raises a finger. “And _when_ this blow’s up in your face I’m going to be there to say I told you so.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way Jay.” Dick smiles.

Jason stands and picks up his cooler.

“I promised Roy I’d help out with some things.” He says by way of an explanation and pauses a moment with a sheepish look. “Drop me a message next time you’re in town and I’ll come by.”

“I knew I could count on you.” Dick says.

Jason shrugs.

“Yeah, well, don’t get too used to it Grayson. I’m just doing it for the kid.” He declares then pauses and smiles to himself. “’Uncle Jay.’” He chuckles and leaves the fairgrounds as quietly as he arrived.

Bruce watches Jason walk away with a small frown on his face as he rejoins Dick with a plate of chili. Dick’s somber expression relaxes into a smile as he sees him.

“So, what did you think of Uncle Jay?” Dick asks him.

“He’s cool.” Bruce says neutrally as he sits back at Dick’s side.

“Glad to hear you’re getting along.” Dick says. “He might be stopping by from time to time to keep an eye on you.”

“I’m getting too much for you to handle, huh?” Bruce says in a perfect deadpan and Dick can’t help but laugh. Bruce looks up with his eyes icy. “You were talking about me, weren’t you?” He says with such cold assurance Dick wonders if he had been watching the whole time.

“Yeah.” He confesses.

Bruce frowns.

“I hate secrets Dick.” He says seriously.

“I know you do bud, but I can’t come clean all the way yet.” Dick says with a sigh. “It’s an ongoing investigation, hush hush, but yes, what happened to you wasn’t an accident. Someone wanted it to happen.”

He looks at Bruce who is completely expressionless as he processes this information.

“They’re going to pay.” He says simply but it still sends a shiver of foreboding down Dick’s spine.

“Yeah.” Dick says and hugs Bruce tight. “Yeah, they are.”

This seems to satisfy Bruce.

“I need to get stronger.” He says. “I’m still too weak.”

“You’re going to get stronger.” Dick says and presses a kiss to the top of his head. “I promise.”

“I’m going to be the strongest and keep everyone safe forever, like you Dick.” Bruce declares with a childish confidence in him so genuine Dick chokes up for nearly a minute. Bruce pokes him in the side.

“Hurry up and teach me something new okay?” He demands.

Dick melodramatically rubs his side.

“Are you up to it?” He asks. “You did a lot of exposure therapy today, you can take a break.”

Bruce holds his plate higher to show it off to Dick.

“I did a lot of throwing up, but I’m going to do a lot of eating so it balances out.” He says proudly.

“Not what I meant bud, but alright.” Dick smiles and ruffles his hair. “Eat up then, I’ll teach you how to do a flip.”

Bruce nods with enthusiasm and shovels a big spoonful of chilli into his mouth. He winces.

“Is Eli still putting extra chilli flakes in your food?” Dick asks him.

Bruce nods and swallows, loading up his spoon again.

“You don’t have to eat it.” Dick points out.

“I’m not going to waste food.” Bruce points out. “In fact, I should go back and ask him to make it spicier...”

“I swear you’re the only person I know stubborn enough to try to double down on being hazed.” Dick rolls his eyes.

“But Dick,” Bruce says with his eyes wide and serious. “How else will I get strong enough to defeat the chilli?”

“You little...You’re messing with me!” Dick laughs.

“I am absolutely messing with you.” Bruce says and laughs too.

Dick ruffles his hair and after they eat he spends some time teaching Bruce some more circus tricks. Bruce was getting pretty good at the acrobatics; he was determined to learn as much as he could from anyone that would teach him. It was just a pity that his enthusiasm for throwing knives didn’t extend to learning his multiplication tables.

Dick watches and gives tips until it’s time to keep a weekly appointment and he convinces Bruce to join in the game the rest of the kids were setting up.

The circus kids played the same game since before his parents were kids, a game that spanned the whole fairgrounds, they called Hide-and-tag. The rules were simple, whoever was ‘it’ had to find another player who was hiding then tag them, at which point they became another seeker. As long as you weren’t tagged you weren’t caught and were free to run and find a new hiding place and the hiders were free to move between hiding places as they wished. As newly caught seekers weren’t obligated to identify themselves as such (though they also weren’t permitted to lie) co-operation between those hiding was low, as someone found and caught would immediately turn on anyone else whose hiding place they knew, and co-operation between the growing group of seekers was high.

Bruce was the best at it; he loved scaling the highest place he could find where he would perch like a Gotham gargoyle and blend into the shadows while watching the chase, until he got spotted and fled with a small pack of circus kids dedicated to hunting him down. He was a terror as a seeker too, directing the rest of the circus kids with all the solemnity of a general on campaign. Dick had taught him some military hand signals and Bruce had quickly passed the knowledge on, which had reduced the amount of yelling.

He was weird, the circus kids decided, but he was circus weird which meant it could be overlooked. If the spook stayed quiet and liked climbing high places, that was just the way he was. If he was a good planner and a good fighter, that was just the way he was too. The circus was good at accepting the good with bad; they were a family made from the left-overs and castaways the world left behind. For most of them, Dick and Bruce included, it became their safety net. Dick knew that no matter how high the fall the circus would always be there to catch him.

Bruce was making friends, even though he was still afraid to let other people into his life. Slowly his flinch distance was reducing as he tried opening up and no-one got hurt. It was exposure therapy too in a way. Admittedly Bruce had referred to them as minions yesterday but the road to progress never ran smooth. The important thing was he was opening himself up to asking for help and being asked for help in return.

The game would keep him busy for a while, while Dick headed back to the trailer to take a video call.

Being able to talk weekly was a good idea, it made managing the case easier, but Dick didn’t want Bruce overhearing the details of the case. Some of the details weren’t pleasant and it was a discussion he wasn’t ready to have.

“Good afternoon Mr Pennyworth, I heard the news from Barbara, there was an attempted assault?” Dick asks.

He’d been surprised to hear about it, the Gotham legal system wasn’t bad enough to mix the butler with the general population, especially since he hadn’t been formally charged. Not only did he end up with some bad news inmates targeting him, they seemed to be targeting him _specifically._ They went straight to his cell as if they’d been given directions. They had gotten the butler alone, three to one in a confined space and Alfred had broken their arms. The court were holding it up as proof he was dangerous; Barbara thought it was an assassination attempt gone wrong for the assassins. Either way it was a lose-lose situation for the defense, but Dick was glad the old man wasn’t hurt.

“It was taken care of.” The butler replies.

“I’m glad to hear you’re not harmed.” Dick tells him.

“They were amateur brutes, it would be a sad day if I could not handle guttersnipes like them.” Alfred says dismissively.

“I don’t doubt it Mr Pennyworth.” Dick smiles.

He liked the butler. He had given invaluable advice vis-à-vis getting Bruce to eat his vegetables and go to bed on time. Without him Dick doubts he would have gotten through to the sullen youth.

Dick wishes there was more he could do to help but when the only witness to the crime was a traumatized eight-year-old it was easy enough for the court to fabricate their own version of events. The note complicated things, it was a warning, untraceable, that the Waynes were sentenced to die that night. The butler had hidden it, not wanting to worry them, and Dick could hardly blame him. A wealthy family in Gotham got a lot of death threats, if you worried about them all you’d never leave the house.

Alfred was just unlucky that whoever sent that one was serious. Now he had been charged with collaborating. What a world.

The Gotham Legal System was so rotten Dick was surprised it was still standing. The butler had Barbara and every cop that cared more about justice than a pay check on his side, which was about ten people total. He had been taken into protective custody until the trial, which was jail without the jail.

Dick has no doubts that if it wasn’t for Barbara they’d leave him there until he died. As it was Gotham’s Finest were putting in hard hours to try and get him tried in a court outside of Gotham, where the jury wouldn’t have half a million in bribes split between them to buy a verdict. It would be easier and cheaper to just pay the bribes themselves, but all of them wanted this to be a fair trial, and that meant doing things the hard way.

“What news of the outside world?” the butler asks and interrupts his musing. Dick inwardly scolds himself for drifting off, their call time was limited, he could daydream in his own time.

Dick briefs him on the details of the investigation, leaving no sordid detail of the corrupted legal system from the man currently trapped by it. He doesn’t have to worry about the feed being monitored, some friends of his had set things up to ensure privacy.

He lays out the evidence, aware of how little it amounted to, and how slow the investigation is going.

“Barbara says we have a few suspects for the gunman but it’s looking like they were the geek.” Dick sighs.

Alfred raises a frosty eyebrow.

“Sorry, circus cant.” Dick apologizes. “A Geek’s a freak show performer who would perform a gross or shocking act, normally biting the head off animals of some sort. Most of them were alcoholics and addicts paid in liquor or drugs and ditched when the circus moved on.”

“An apt term then.” Alfred winces.

“The gunman is a pawn in this.” Dick adds. “The tricky part is going to be finding out who hired them and why they seem to have such an intense grudge against _you_ Mr Pennyworth.”

“I don’t suppose…This could be about Bruce?” Alfred asks. “He stands to inherit a great deal of the company and I would have stood as his legal guardian. Separating him from me puts those assets at risk. In the hands of a less scrupulous legal guardian…”

“You suspect the Kanes?” Dick asks.

“Martha’s split from the family was not amiable but…he wouldn’t want her harmed.” Alfred says carefully.

“Just her husband?” Dick points out and Alfred frowns. “The colonel’s been in contact with Barbara and even he thinks it was a set up.”

“Does Bruce know?” Alfred asks.

“That he’s in danger? No, he still thinks he’s running away with the circus so he doesn’t have to stay with the Kanes.” Dick smiles. “I have some friends looking over him when I can’t be around but no-one will be looking for Bruce Wayne in a circus. He’s well undercover.”

“And when you get back to Gotham?” Alfred asks. “The colonel will want to see him.”

“The colonel has a stick shoved up his ass so far it’s cutting off the flow to his brain.” Dick snorts. “And I outrank him so he will be saying nothing but ‘yes sir’ and if I’m feeling generous I might allow him to lick my boots.”

Alfred smiles at that one.

“There should be time for Bruce to visit you however.” Dick adds. “I know he misses you.”

“I miss him.” Alfred sighs. “I can’t help but feel somewhat responsible…”

“Because you didn’t take being blackmailed seriously?” Dick says. “Alfred, you had no idea the court...”

He pauses as he catches sight of Bruce through the trailer’s window.

“That’s him now, we’ll have continue this another time.” He says.

“You’ll have to tell him eventually.” Alfred points out.

“It’s a conversation I’m not looking forward to.” Dick admits and unlocks the door.

“Bruce is well-behaved, getting plenty of exercise, making friends, doing his homework, eating the four major food groups and maintaining an A average in his studies.” Dick rattles off as Bruce comes in.

“Hi Alfred, Dick taught me how to do a flip today, want to see?” Bruce chatters excitedly at the screen.

Dick grabs him before he can do anything.

“ _Not_ inside, there’s not enough room here. You’re going to hurt yourself.” He scolds. “Then what will Mr Pennyworth think of me?”

“I’ve told you, you can call me Alfred, Master Dick.” The butler smiles.

“And I’ve told you there’s no need to call me Master, Mr Pennyworth.” Dick smiles back.

Bruce sits on his lap and leans forward so so he can get closer to the camera.

He immediately begins to regale Alfred with the tale of his game of Hide-and-tag and how the new strategies he had been planning had worked, what he had been learning in school this week, the movie they had watched in the weekend, the book Dick was reading with him, the weird bug he had found behind the caravans and how he cooked food for _everyone_ in the circus all by himself for the first time ever. It takes a lot of telling and Alfred nods and looks impressed at the appropriate moments. By the time Bruce has finished telling him how his penpal Kal (who lived on a _farm_ ) is teaching him a secret alien code language so they can send secret messages to each other Bruce is quite out of breath but smiling.

Alfred gives Dick the look that means his visiting time was almost up. Dick cuts Bruce off in the middle of a half-understandable diatribe on how it was stupid that S stood for hope and bundles Bruce up in a hug.

“It’s bed time for you fusspot!” Dick tells him and ruffles his hair.

“But I’m not finished!” Bruce pouts and Dick hopes he doesn’t throw another tantrum.

“You can tell Mr Pennyworth the rest of it next time we’re in Gotham for a visit.” Dick tells him. “Or you can write him a letter, he’s allowed letters.”

“I would look forward to it Master Bruce.” Alfred adds.

Bruce appears to think it over.

“Alright, I’ll write you a letter first thing after I wake up.” He decides and lets Dick pick him up. “Goodnight Alfred.”

“Goodnight Master Bruce.” The butler replies. “And goodnight to you too Master Dick.”

“Goodnight Alfred and stay safe.” Dick says with a fond smile and kills the connection. Bruce yawns and snuggles up against him.

“Not so fast cuddlebear.” Dick tells him. “You still have to brush your teeth.”

Bruce ignores him and snuggles closer, pretending to be asleep.

Dick sighs and plants a tender kiss on the boy’s forehead. Being a parent was already turning out different than he expected.


	5. Hub City

Bruce strides into his trailer with his face flushed with triumph and slams the unlocked manacles onto the bench in front of Dick. The chain slithers off the bench with a sound like a snake and falls onto the floor.

“I'm done, give me another one.” He demands.

Dick arches an eyebrow.

“I'm sorry, do I look like your butler?” He asks and Bruce’s face flares further with embarrassment.

“I’ve finished my escape Dick, please give me another?” He asks more politely.

“Sorry bud, I’m busy right now.” Dick replies and gestures to his computer screen. “You’re going to have to wait.”

Bruce throws himself sulkily down on the couch and Dick hears the TV switch on.

“Bruce…Have you finished your algebra homework?” He asks.

“I’ll do it later.” Bruce grumbles.

“Do you want child services to send you back to Gotham?” Dick says warningly.

Bruce sighs but Dick hears him switch off the TV and get out his schoolbooks.

“That’s better.” Dick says.

He lets his eyes rest on the manacles as his fingers fly across the keyboard, arranging the details of their next show.

Dick had learned that Bruce was happiest when he had something to occupy himself with, some physical challenge to overcome or problem to solve. It stopped his mind from wandering to dark places.

Dick realizes the sound of pen scratching on paper has stopped. He looks in the rear-view mirror at Bruce, idly tapping the tip of his pen against the blank space for the answer while he frowns, lost in thought. From the dark look on his face Dick can tell it isn’t algebra that’s occupying his head right now.

Dick stands and goes over to him. He plants a fond kiss to the boy’s forehead to get his attention.

“Bruce, you’re brooding again.” He says as a gentle warning.

Bruce frowns deeper.

“Was I? I didn’t mean to.” He says.

“Do you want to talk about your feelings?” Dick asks him.

“No, I think I’m good.” Bruce says carefully.

“I’m always here if you need to talk.” Dick tells him.

“I know.” Bruce replies.

Dick angles his head as he looks at Bruce’s homework. The numbers in Bruce’s neat black pen handwriting are neat and the answers look correct for most part but he’s doodled three bats in the margin. That was a sure sign his thoughts had been growing dark; the bats only showed up when Bruce’s mood was particularly black. He’d had a hell of a Halloween with that particular phobia of Bruce’s; insects got attracted to the lights of the circus which in turn attracted dozens of the leathery-winged creatures. Bruce had slept in his bed for the first time in months after one had smacked into the window, poor thing.

Dick sighs.

Some days were better than others. The nightmares hadn’t stopped but Bruce was getting better at dealing with them.

Bruce flops over on his back with a dramatic sigh.

“I hate everything.” Bruce declares to the ceiling.

Dick chuckles and ruffles his hair as he passes, taking a sip of his coffee as he retakes a seat at his workbench.

“Anything in particular to bring on this spontaneous outpouring of emotion?” Dick asks him.

“People are terrible and I hate all of them.” Bruce tells him. “I hate every single person on this planet, all of them.”

“What about me?” Dick asks with a note of teasing in his tone.

“Obviously I don’t hate you.” Dick doesn’t need to look to know Bruce is rolling his eyes.

“And then there’s Alfred.” Dick adds.

“Yeah, but…” Bruce starts to say.

“And Jason and Barbara...” Dick continues, counting on his fingers.

 “Well, yes…” Bruce frowns.

“And Kal, you like Kal.” Dick points out.

“Dick!” Bruce whines. “Kal’s a friend; friends don’t count as people.”

“Friends don’t count as _people?_ ” Dick repeats, sounding scandalized.

“You know what I mean!” Bruce groans. “I hate everyone except the people I like and the ones I don’t have an opinion about, are you happy? Can’t you just leave me to be melodramatic in peace?”

“Hate to break it to you bud but if you get any more melodramatic you’re going to turn into the Phantom of the Opera.” Dick chuckles.

“Hmmm Lon Chaney phantom or Claude Rains phantom?” Bruce asks him.

“Oh definitely the one with the bad teeth and too much eyeliner.” Dick tells him.

“And I shall live in a cave and eat nothing but cockroaches.” Bruce tells him solemnly. “The people will say ‘There goes the mad boy, doomed to spend eternity in the company of idiots’ and dogs will howl and babies cry on nights I wander the moor with my ghost-light lantern.”

“Where are you going to get a moor around here?” Dick asks him.

“I’ll get one imported.” Bruce tells him. “The hard part is going to be importing a ghost for the lantern.”

Dick laughs.

“Can I come and visit you in your cave?” He asks teasingly.

Bruce nods.

“Sure, you can come and visit. We can have mashed cockroaches for dinner with the legs left in.” He says.

“That’s where all the nutrients are.” Dick says sagely. “And guests, am I allowed to bring guests?”

Bruce frowns.

“You’re allowed to bring _one_ guest if they promise to behave themselves and not laugh at my monster teeth, but you have to tell me ahead of time so I can catch extra cockroaches and get out the good silverware.” Bruce tells him.

“Oh, there’s silverware involved?” Dick asks with a smile.

“Of course there is, I’m a monster not a savage.” Bruce says in his best Alfred impression and Dick laughs.

Bruce smiles to himself, clearly already in a better mood.

“Stop making me smile, I’m trying to be mad.” He tells Dick. “I think I’ll go out for a bit, get some sun and clear my head.”

“Alright.” Dick tells him. “Don’t stay out too long or you’ll get sunburn.”

Bruce nods as he slides off the seat and heads outside.

Dick sighs, smiles to himself and returns to his computer screen. With three deft keystrokes he activates a new program and pours over the data it contains.

Bruce was an active kid, taking a walk was a good way for him to cool off when he got too wrapped up in thinking. His loss was like a sucking wound, it kept on drawing the mind back to it. Sunshine and exercise was their solution when the thought exercises weren’t helping, Bruce said that feeling the sun on his skin gave him something else to focus on, to keep his mind anchored to the present.

We do not forget but we move forwards, Dick had told him.

Dick wondered how much moving forward he was doing. Like Bruce he had lost his parents at a young age then gained a new father shortly after. He had lost them again not long after and the fear that the same might happen to Bruce was consuming him. He was second guessing himself more and more. Bruce’s healing was slow enough after his loss, he’s terrified that something else might happen to exacerbate the trauma and undo what recovery he’d manage to make in that time.

Whatever part of Bruce that was still a normal ten-year-old boy had barely survived that night, another blow might snuff it out for good and Dick couldn’t allow that. He loved the kid too much to let that happen to him.

An incoming message pings on his screen.

 

[RR]: hey big bird

[RR]: hows babysitting?

 

Dick smiles and his fingers fly across the keyboard.

 

[37]: Children are so small

[RR]: that is one qualifier of a child yes

[RR]: they are also young have you noticed that?

[37]: Very funny Tim, as usual

[RR]: i was jasons partner one of us had to be the funny one

[RR]: sarcastic praise is the sea in which i swim dick

[RR]: it is the blood in my veins

[RR]: it fuels me

[RR]: planning on visiting an old friend while youre in my city? :)

[37]: Your city huh?

[?]: The only people in this city I don’t have right where I want them are him and you. I can’t have you running around like a loose cannon disrupting my plans.

[37]: Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?

[?]: Watch all you want Dick.

[?]: Just tell me before you start punching people.

[?]: I’m hiring some of them.

[37]: This is a non-punching related excursion for me

[37]: I am here to catch up with an old friend

[?]: Good.

[RR]: bring the kid

[RR]: it will be educational

[37]: Having some trouble with the case huh Tim?

[RR]: maybe

[RR]: yes

[RR]: bring coffee too

 

The program closes.

Dick smiles.

He guesses that Tim was starting to get jealous that Dick had never bought Bruce to visit him. It wasn’t that either of them was trying to keep them separate, Tim was just very busy.

Hub City, it was really not a nice place. In parts it might be worse than Gotham. As a hero the Question was…eccentric to say the least (though Dick knew the man reportedly thrown from a building during an interrogation was Superman in a fake mustache). There were always plenty of cases to keep a jobbing private investigator in business, too many cases from the sounds of it.

Tim had told him last week he had solved a case in twelve seconds for $10,000 from a client with more money than sense, so he could pay rent long enough to solve a murder for a client who could barely afford the bus fare to the office, and felt so much like Sherlock Holmes he’d bought a deerstalker cap on eBay.

Dick closes down the computer and goes for a walk. It’s a nice enough day, warm with some sun though the sky was thick white with cloud and the occasional puddle of blue.

He finds Bruce perched on top of the roof of one of the trailers, surveying the skyline and idly kicking his feet.

“Hey Bruce!” Dick cups his hands and calls up to him. “Want to come into the city and meet a detective with me?”

Bruce thinks it over for a moment then calls back.

“Sure!”

He steps from the roof and lands next to Dick.

They take the same old beat-up circus car into the city center, where it looks out of place next to the newer cars parked outside the shining buildings. They pull in at a coffee shop on the arty hipster side of things and pick up a few pastries to go.

Dick initially has trouble convincing the barista that he really wants that amount of espresso shots in the drink until he mentions it’s not for him, it’s for a friend. Then another barista behind the counter says ‘Ah, the detective?’ and mixes up a brew so vile looking Bruce is surprised its legal to sell. Bruce knew a proper espresso should be served in a demitasse, a small cup the size of a shot glass. Emptying twenty of them into a paper takeaway cup probably constituted a sin in the coffeehouses of his childhood and definitely constituted a health risk. They mark it with a TD.

Dick gets a sensible coffee for himself and a hot chocolate for Bruce, despite Bruce’s insistence that he is old enough for coffee. It’s a good hot chocolate, still more on the commercial side than the artisan, but strong and bitter with dark cacao tempered by the rich creaminess of the milk. It makes him homesick for a place he hasn’t called home in years.

The detective’s office is close to the coffee shop, as if by design. The coffee doesn’t have time to cool before they are at the door of the private investigator.

“Just hold the coffee out in front on you and you’ll be fine.” Dick jokes and Bruce frowns in concern, drumming his fingers nervously against the coffee cup.

He pushes open the door while holding the cup out in front of him like a protective talisman. As soon as he steps in it is plucked from his fingers by someone pacing the three-foot strip of carpet that wasn’t covered by something. The room looks like an explosion in an office supplies store. Filing cabinets and boxes of folders are stacked three or four high in every corner of the room and monitor screens stick from the stacks like black mushrooms. The walls are papered in maps and photographs linked with intricate webs of colored threads and pins. The hum and buzz of electronics working hard fills the small room.

The room’s sole occupant takes a deep gulp of the coffee and doesn’t even glance in their direction.

“Dick, come in.” He says without looking up from the tablet he’s holding in his other hand.

He sits back in the room’s only chair, a battered black leather office chair that spins as he flops into it and tosses the tablet onto a leaning stack of folders that starts to lean more precariously. He looks at Bruce for the first time.

“Now what did you want and did you bring snacks? Answer the second question first.” He asks seriously.

Dick tosses the paper bag at him and it is caught one-handed.

“Excellent.” The man says as he plunges his hand into the bag. He finishes the coffee in another three gulps and drops the cup into a wastepaper basket filled with nothing but empty coffee cups.

He seems to give the impression of vibrating with excitement even as he’s sitting still, his hands are constantly in motion looking for things to do. His eyes flit from monitor to monitor with practiced ease. He doesn’t even look at the donut he’s shoving in his mouth, one hand twirling a stylus between two fingers. His dark hair had been cut short at some point but has grown out into a messy mop badly in need of a trim. Not a shave though, and although he’s not done up all the buttons correctly and he’s getting powdered sugar on it, the shirt he’s wearing is good quality.

He sucks the powdered sugar from his fingertips. He gives the impression of mingled maturity and childishness; someone who could play up an impression of sophistication but otherwise had better things to focus on. He ate with the minimum of chewing; he just wants to get refueling out of the way.  He’s wearing dress slacks with sneakers, no jewelry or cologne, no accessories or adornment to his clothing except…

“Don’t forget the watch.” He says to Bruce, suddenly meeting his gaze, and Bruce quickly looks down and to the side.

“How did you know I was…?” Bruce starts to ask and the man taps his forehead.

“Detective vision.” He claims and smiles as Bruce immediately frowns in confusion. “Thanks for the pick-me-up Dick, I haven’t eaten real food for…” The man checks the slim black band Bruce had thought was a bracelet and now knows is a new-fashioned minimalist watch. “Since Monday. For since Monday.”

“That’s nearly three days!” Dick sounds both shocked and concerned.

“I’ve got supplements.” The man shrugs. “I was working a case, I’m this close Dick, this close.” He holds up a hand with forefinger and thumb touching.

“Your fingers are touching.” Bruce points out.

“Because I have this case _solved_ , I just need to hunt down the last bits of evidence.” The man tells him.

“Bruce, this is Tim…” “ _Detective_ Tim.” The dark-haired detective interrupts to correct him. “Detective Tim Drake.” Dick finishes. “He’s the private investigator working on your case.”

Bruce immediately falls into a state of laser focus at those words.

“There’s that detective vision.” Tim says with a smile, returning the intensity of the gaze as he meets Bruce’s eyes and leans forward against the desk, causing three neat stacks of folders to slide. “So, you’re Bruce Wayne, the little detective in the flesh.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Bruce says, and it is more a genuine request than an insult.

“The little plastic things on the ends of shoelaces are called aglets and their true purpose is _sinister_.” Tim says with a sardonic smile and spreads his hands in a peaceful gesture. “What do you _want_ to know?”

“ _Everything._ ” Bruce tells him seriously and Tim’s eyes light up with the raw and terrifying joy of an obsessed fan asked about his favorite subject.

“ _Well…_ ” He breathes out.

“Tim, we don’t have the time.” Dick interrupts and Tim snorts, frowning at him.

“You bring him to the World’s Greatest Detective and then don’t want him to ask questions?” He asks.

“Tim, I have known you to l _iterally_ talk to an empty room for four hours because the person you were talking to walked out and you didn’t notice.” Dick says and folds his arms. “We need the CliffsNotes not the TED talk.”

“Touché.” Tim leans back in his chair. “Another day then little detective.” He smiles. “Bring more coffee.”

Tim’s fingers dance over the folders and select one two from the bottom of the nearest stack; he pulls it free and the stack rocks but doesn’t fall. He frowns and plays a quick game of folder tetris to get some clear desk space.

“The truth will out, good phrase, good phrase, Shakespeare, from murder superstition, corpse bleeds when near murderer, but good phrase, good phrase.” Tim mutters to himself as he flicks through files. “I need more coffee, I’m not using complete sentences anymore.”

Tim spreads out a few files on the recently cleared desk and Bruce’s eyes light up as he takes them in.

“With this we’re going to trial in June, and let me tell you, getting enough evidence to convince a Gotham court is both tougher and more expensive than literally throwing money at them to acquit.” Tim tells him and actually sounds excited, like a child looking forward to a friend’s birthday. “But now our application for military court has been accepted there’s no way we won’t be able to get all charges of collaboration dropped. By this time in June Alfred Pennyworth is going to be a free man.”

Tim spreads out the documents on the desk in front of them and Bruce eagerly looks over them. Receipts, newspaper clippings, hazy photos from security cameras and several copies of threatening looking notes spill across the desk.

Bruce’s entire body stiffens like a startled cat in shock. He taps a photo.

“Who’s this?” He asks in a whisper.

Tim looks at the photo and Dick has no way to warn him of what he might unleash before he’s speaking.

“Joseph Chill.” Tim says.

“He was the gunman.” Bruce says, his voice curiously bleached of all emotion. “He was the one who shot them.”

Tim picks up the photo.

“Would you testify to that?” He asks.

“ _Yes_.” Bruce hisses, deadly as an adder's kiss.

“ _Good._ ” Tim puts the photo back in the file.

“The Truth Will Out Bruce.” He says seriously, looking Bruce dead in the eyes. “The Truth. Will. Out.”

Bruce is silent for the rest of the night. Dick talks with Tim about the upcoming trial, the difficulties of Gotham law, what they can expect to get in the settlement and what’s going to happen afterwards.

Bruce doesn’t pay attention; he’s clocked out somewhere behind his eyes and left his body in autopilot.

He is entirely silent as they leave the city and, as soon as they return to the circus, Bruce slips into the shadows and disappears. Dick doesn’t see him at all as they get started on the night show. Bruce normally showed up to help with the set-up or just to help out and keep an eye on things. Dick misses his company on his usual round of checking the equipment before a show.

He doesn’t show up during the show either, which is unusual, but Dick doesn’t have time to worry when he’s supposed to be the Flying Grayson, acrobat extraordin-air. He wasn’t there after the show either so Dick went looking for him. He’s concerned Bruce is about to do something stupid.

Bruce has been more of a sullen specter than usual since they left the city. He had locked down his face, keeping any expression from it, until it resembled a plastic mask more than flesh. Dick had spoken to him and Bruce had stared back with his eyes as cold and clean of emotion as two polished steel marbles.

Dick still didn’t know what to do when Bruce retreated into himself like that. With care and time he could get Bruce to open his shell and talk honestly about his feelings, but there were still times when he shut himself off entirely. When those times happened Dick didn’t know what he could do to help, but whatever it was Bruce was going through it was something he wanted to face alone. Bruce hated and feared weakness in equal measure; he was scared that his emotions would overwhelm him and that people would take advantage of that and he hated that he felt that fear.

So Bruce disassociated, he locked down and he controlled himself. He was making plans and Dick didn’t know what they were but whatever came out of that dark place was never good.

It takes him a few hours to find someone who knows where Bruce is, after Bruce fails to show up in the dinning tent for dinner. Dick checks the trailer and all of his favorite places to hide but it feels like Bruce is deliberately avoiding him. When Bruce doesn’t want to be seen it is a lot harder to find him then it should be. It’s not until after he’s resorted to walking around calling his name that Davey tugs on his shirt to show he knows where Bruce has gone.

“Where’s the spook?” Dick asks him, using the circus kids’ nickname for Bruce.

Davey jerks a finger towards the main tent and Dick sighs.

He prepares himself for an argument as he enters the tent. The sun has set and there is a chill on the air as the sky darkens from royal blue to navy to black. The night show had already wrapped up, leaving the tent set up for the morning show tomorrow. No-one should be here, but Bruce is perched at the highest point of the web of ropes, punching at a sandbag, the same move over and over like a video stuck on repeat. He doesn’t seem to notice the time or that Dick has been looking all over for him.

Dick cups his hands over his mouth.

“Bruce, get down here.” He calls out.

Bruce’s eyes flicker to him briefly, just enough for Dick to know he’s being ignored on purpose. He sinks another solid blow into the sandbag. There is a smear of red on the cloth.

“Now mister!” Dick raises his voice.

“I’m not done!” Bruce yells back.

“Yeah, you are.” Dick says bluntly and folds his arms.

Bruce’s eyes flit to the ladder, Dick runs for it but Bruce is faster. The ladder clatters to the ground. Bruce looks down at him.

“Not. Done.” He repeats and goes back to practicing.

“It is _late_ Bruce.” Dick growls. “You need to go to bed.”

He starts scoping out the situation, already calculating.

“What I _need_ …” Bruce says, punctuating his sentence with a punch. “Is to get stronger.”

“You brat!” Dick swears under his breath. “I’ll tie you to your bed if I have to!”

He figures out the angles and leaps, scaling the support pole as quickly as a monkey. Bruce immediately leaps away from him, dancing over the ropes and balances he’s pulled into a precarious web, using the equipment in ways it’s not supposed to be used, and coming perilously close to falling.

Bruce’s tensed like a wildcat, his eyes curiously blank and Dick can see blood glinting on his knuckles where the skin has torn.

“Stay still you little hellion!” Dick curses as he chases after him.

Bruce is determined not be caught and if they weren’t so high up Dick would treat this as another game of tag, just another case of Bruce being stubborn. He’s trained Bruce too well, Dick realizes, and he’s not sure if he feels more pride Bruce is evading him or fear for his safety. Bruce is light on his feet, but he’s keeping his focus on his pursuer not his footing.

He’s doing it on purpose, Dick realizes with a burst of mingled anger and fear, he’s forcing Dick to choose between catching him and keeping him from falling, knowing Dick will save him every time. He’s deliberately manipulating Dick’s fears of losing him like he had lost his parents. If the strategy had come from an enemy rather than a ten-year-old who thinks he knows better, Dick would be impressed. As it is Bruce is calling things too close and the odds aren’t on their side. Eventually he’s going to make a mistake and when he does he’ll be lucky if he gets caught rather than falls.

There!

Dick snags him with an arm around his middle and Bruce fights to get free.

“Let go! I have to get stronger!” Bruce screams. “I have to kill him, I have to hunt him down and I have to kill him! I can't stop, I have to get stronger!”

He thrashes violently and knocks them both off balance.

Dick manages to grab at a rope with his other hand as they tip over. The friction tears an inch-wide strip of skin from his palm, and he still hits the ground hard enough to crack his shoulder. He hears the snap as soon as he hits but the pain is delayed a few seconds before it spreads out from the spot like a wave of fire. The edges of broken bone grind together as Bruce struggles, desperate to do something, anything, but _feel_ and Dick holds him in a hug as tight as a straitjacket.

“Stop Bruce.” He whispers to him as he holds him tight and doesn’t let go. Bruce sinks his teeth into his Dick’s arm. “Stop, just stop, stop, stop…” He repeats it even as Bruce starts to scream. It’s a sound of despair and frustration and impotent rage at the universe. "Stop, stop, stop..." He is crying and Dick is too as he realizes that no matter how hard he tries to keep Bruce safe, there’s no way he can protect Bruce from himself.


	6. National City

Dick is lucky, his scapula is just cracked not fully snapped in two.

His shoulder still swells and his palm is going to scar. He can’t perform without risking aggravating the wound more and delaying recovery further, which means he can spend more time with Bruce.

After Bruce’s anger and frustration fades to a deep, sobbing sorrow even that runs out and leaves nothing but emptiness behind. Bruce is emotionally dead inside for a week afterwards, he moves like an automaton run by punch cards or a puppet being manipulated by some distant entity and doesn’t say more than three words. Dick is not the only one consumed with worry for him; the rest of the circus kids crowd around, aware something has happened to their friend but not what they can do to help. They offer shy reassurances and attempts at conversation while Bruce is as stiff and lifeless as a storefront mannequin.

In the end the apathy breaks to a wave of creeping dread that prickles like the legs of thousand hairy spiders, making his hair stand on end and Bruce gasps for air like a drowning man as he is forced back into his skin. Shivers wrack his body; his skin is freezing and his insides seem so cold it burns. He retches once, violently, without bringing anything up and as suddenly as it had started the nausea disappears. Bruce gasps as sensation trickles back into his limbs. The world that had recently seemed as real as solid as a cobweb’s shadow presses in around him. For a second his scrabbling fingers are dark and twisted claws before he wills himself back into a human skin.

A nightmare, or so he thinks, until he looks to the side where Dick is sleeping with one arm curled protectively around him and sees in monochrome, highlighted by the silver moonlight, the dark fabric of the shoulder brace. He had done that; he had forced Dick to save him, he had broken Dick’s shoulder. Guilt burns in the pit of his stomach. He had taken the skies from Dick as surely as if he had snapped off a bird’s wing. He had taken away the performing Dick loved, he had manipulated him with his trauma and worst of all, Dick didn’t seem to hate him for it. If Dick had been angry with him or rejected him for it his guilt wouldn’t be burning so much in his insides, but Dick kept on loving him.

Bruce’s breath catches in his throat. He takes a moment to steady his breathing and watches Dick’s sleeping face. He looks peaceful and Bruce’s racing heart calms as he slowly breathes out. He had hurt Dick. He couldn’t hurt him again. The rage, that mind-numbing anger that had flowed into him as soon as he saw the photograph, it was still lurking and could overwhelm him again. The only thing keeping it at bay was the deep ache of guilt. Dick didn’t deserve to be hurt; he had shown Bruce nothing but love and kindness and had been repaid with anger and pain. That wasn’t fair.

Now feeling has returned to his body he can move like his body was his again, not a TV show in another room viewed through an open door. The moon shines through the trailer’s skylight, turning the trailer into a monochrome world. Bruce closes his eyes as he tries to remember events that seem as distant as a dream. National City, they were in National City.

He takes a deep breath and starts to move, so slowly as to not disturb Dick’s sleep. He is lucky, Dick is fast asleep and he can pull himself free without waking his guardian. Now standing on the trailer floor in his bare feet he moves as quietly as he can, keeping his breaths shallow so as not to disturb the sleeper. With the moonlight throwing things into deep shadow he cautiously feels around until he finds Dick’s phone. Making sure the screen is facing away from him Bruce cups the screen and tightly closes his eyes as he turns it on. The flare of light from the screen still nearly blinds him and he cracks open one eye a fraction to squint past the glare. He enters Dick’s passcode and scroll down the contacts until he finds a name he recognizes. Jason.

Bruce takes a deep breath in, hopes the hazy memory of the time spent disassociated is right, and opens the messenger app.

[Cn y mt me nat cit fairgrnds asap] Bruce txts, not bothering to correct spelling errors.

It’s a long shot Bruce knows, but it’s also the best one he has. Bruce leans back against the trailer wall and lets his eyes slide closed as he counts to steady his breathing. The night presses in on him and he can feel himself starting to slip back into sleep when the phone vibrates in his hands. He jolts awake, biting his tongue and hoping Dick hasn’t noticed but the acrobat hasn’t stirred. Bruce blinks in the bright light of the phone as he reads Jason’s reply. A single letter, k.

Bruce deletes both messages from the device’s history before carefully replacing the phone exactly as he found it. With a slow and careful tread he makes his way to retrieve his jacket from its hook, before sneaking to the door. He rests his hand on the door handle, the poor lighting giving it the gritty look of old film grain, before taking one last look at Dick. He sleeps on, as peaceful as he had been when Bruce had been tucked under his arm. Bruce offers a silent prayer to the traveller god of cons, scams and tricks that he doesn’t wake and pulls open the door as slowly and quietly as he can manage. Bruce slips through it, pulling the door carefully shut behind him and steps out into the night.

The bare earth is cold under his feet as he descends the steps and pulls on his jacket over his pyjamas. The moonlight is joined by the pale-yellow glow of the circus’s security lights. Each basketball sized orb attracts a cloud of fat white-winged moths that bump into the glass with a faint ‘tink’ sound. A shrill chirp that bubbles in the ears precedes Bruce’s familiar old nightmare. The bat clings to the bulb, its leathery wings spread like dark clutching claws over the light, its bloated black body cutting the light into strips of shadow as it crunches down the white wings of a helplessly fluttering moth. Bruce views it with disgust.

Bruce moves from patch of light to patch of light, keeping a close eye on his footing so he doesn’t accidentally step on a rusty nail or shard of glass. The dust clings to the sole of his foot but he had taken too many risks as is, he doubts he could open the closet and find a matching pair of shoes without waking Dick. He’s still hoping to be back before Dick wakes up.

The night air is still but cold, it prickles his lungs when he breathes in. Bruce is glad he thought to bring the jacket as he pulls it close around his shoulders. The cold seeps right through the legs of his pyjama pants but he endures the chill as he huddles up in the shelter of the pole that marked the edged of his territory. Past this point are the shadows of unfamiliar buildings, unfamiliar streets with lonely street lights spotlighting empty pavement. It’s a foreign country, alien and hostile, unlike the familiar world of the circus.

He waits under streetlights on the border of normal and strange.

Compared to the circus during the day the night is dead and empty. The night is textured with small sounds; the chirping of crickets and the now familiar low rumble of cars on a distant highway. Bruce tucks himself into a tight ball to shield against the cold. He picks up on a familiar noise at the edge of his hearing, slowly but steadily getting louder before he catches sight of the single bright light heading towards him. It is the familiar comforting thrum of a motorcycle engine. Bruce stands with the cold stiffening his limbs. The brightness of the headlight is blinding to his dark adjusted eyes, all he can see of the rider is the faint specks of reflected light from the studs on his leather jacket and the shine of red on his helmet.

“Alright, this better be an emergency.” The rider says as he kills the engine and pulls off his helmet. He shakes out his hair, running his fingers through it to get rid of his hat hair.

Bruce steps out of the light and closer to the rider as the light dies, leaving a lingering smear of shadow on Bruce’s retinas. In what tatters remain of his dark vision he can see the silhouette of the rider as he looks up and notices him.

“Bruce? What are you doing up?” Jason asks. “Where’s Dick?”

“Sleeping.” Bruce tells him.

Jason sighs.

“You messaged me didn’t you little soldier?” He asks. “Dick said you had a bit of a funny turn after seeing Tim.”

Bruce nods and Jason sighs again. He stretches to disguise the motion of holstering the weapons hidden on his body. Whatever it was Jason thought he was summoned for he came armed. This makes things easier.

“What’s the emergency little soldier?” He asks with a fond smile as he looks over his favorite ‘nephew’.

Bruce looks back at him, his face seeming far older than the shark-patterned pyjama bottoms poking from underneath his jacket.

“Jason.” He asks. “Teach me how to kill.”

Jason’s smile remains but the life drains from his face around it.

“You’re asking a lot from me Bruce.” He says softly.

“I know.” Bruce replies.

Jason is struck by how serious he is about this. There is no anger in his words, no rage he could dismiss out of hand, just a serious sincere desire to end a life. Jason had seen that same calm acceptance in the eyes of child soldiers from war-torn countries. Seeing it in the eyes of the kid he thought of as family chilled him more than the night air ever could.

He knows from looking that there is no motivational speech he can give here, no pretty words well-meaning enough to convince him this isn’t the path he wants to go down. Bruce has already made his choice; he’s made it before he sent the message to meet.

Instead he reaches down his side to where one of his most faithful handguns rested on his left hip. He draws Lefty in a smooth motion, spinning the baretta around so the handle is pointing towards Bruce. Bruce’s eyes are drawn to it like iron filings to a magnet.

Jason doesn’t insult the kid by asking if he sure this is what he wants; for all his faults Bruce knew his own mind.

“Some things can’t be taken back.” He says instead.

Bruce looks up at him and his eyes are cold and hard as chips of sapphire.

“I know.” He says and lays his hand on the baretta’s handle.

A chill that has nothing to do with the night air runs down Jason’s spine. He does know, Jason is sure, he knows what he is asking, he knows what the consequences will be and he is prepared to kill his soul to achieve his goals.  Jason feels an aching pain in his heart at being unable to protect this child, this small fragile child who thought the world of him, from the world of blood and death he was mired in.

Someone under a foot away clears her throat. Both Bruce and Jason jolt in surprise and Bruce’s hand slips from the handle of the gun. Neither of them had heard anyone approach and the reason why was obvious; the new figure is hovering a foot off the ground.

“If what I think is happening is happening, it better not be.” Superwoman says dryly.

Jason winces. There’s no hope she’s missed their earlier conversation; super-hearing and all. He forces the words ‘this isn’t what it looks like’ back down his throat and holsters the gun.

“I’m his uncle.” He says instead, which isn’t much better.

The hovering figure’s face is shrouded in deep shadow, the moonlight turning her usual uniform of bright blue and red to a flat black and grey. Keen eyes could just about make out the crest on her chest past her crossed arms. Tiny pilot lights of red energy glitter in the dark depths of her eyes.

“He is.” Bruce confirms, also keenly aware how little this fact would matter to National City’s superhuman guardian.

Superwoman was the first Kryptonian hero on Earth and leader of the Justice League. This scene would be incriminating enough if they were discovered by a cop, let alone someone who could see through walls and hear the entire city at once.

“Would you like to try that again?” Superwoman asks sweetly, managing to convey through her tone that she doesn’t believe them but is giving them a second chance to tell the truth.

“ _Honorary_ uncle.” Bruce corrects, aware Superwoman can probably pick up on a lie from the faintest of body readings. “Not blood related.”

“Do you think that helps matters?” Superwoman asks. Her tone reminds Bruce of Alfred after he had stolen some cookies out of the pantry and thought he had gotten away with it. Remembered shame prickles the back of his neck, like the legs of a hairy spider.

“No ma’am.” He says politely, feeling a lot like a scolded school child.

“We’re agreed on something then.” Superwoman says and Jason flinches.

“Listen K…Superwoman.” He quickly corrects himself. “I have this situation under control.” He starts to say.

Superwoman silences him simply by turning towards him so the tiny red specks are gazing into his eyes.

“I don’t think you do Jason.” She says and Bruce can think of no reason why _Superwoman_ wouldn’t know everyone’s name.

Jason shrinks back too and Bruce can tell he’s not the only one feeling school-teacher-told-off.

 Superwoman hovers a little higher, her cape rippling around her feet.

“A situation that was in _control_ wouldn’t involve giving a _child_ a **_handgun_** _Jason._ ” She says, putting such a venomous emphasis on the word ‘handgun’ that both Jason and Bruce flinch at the level of hate she puts into the word.

“With all due respect Ma’am.” Bruce says, clearing his throat as his words start to stick in the face of such an intimidating figure of a hero. “This meeting was my doing.”

“Don’t you think I’m unaware of that young man.” Superwoman tells him. “I will be having a long and serious discussion with your parents.”

“Then you better bring a shovel.” Bruce says bluntly.

Jason chokes with a half-successful effort not to laugh.

Superwoman barely perceptibly raises an eyebrow.

“Oh? A comedian, are you?” She asks.

“Just being honest Ma’am.” Bruce replies, keeping his voice neutral and meeting the red in the Kryptonian’s eyes without a trace of fear.

For a brief moment the hovering figure is entirely still before she turns back to Jason.

“If anyone can be said to have this situation ‘under control’ I would say it is him, wouldn’t you Jason?” She says, keeping her voice calm and level.

Jason coughs and thumps his chest, standing up straighter to try and appear more in control of himself.

“I said I was in control of this situation and I meant it Miss Superwoman Ma’am.” He replies and this time doesn’t flinch when Superwoman fixes him with her piercing gaze.

“Would you care to elaborate on that Jason?” She asks sweetly, but also conveying that she is running out of patience. “Giving a _child_ a loaded weapon is under control for you?”

“Please don’t talk about me like I’m not here.” Bruce says quietly but full of menace. “Ma’am.” He hastily tacks onto the end. He doesn’t flinch as the red sparking eyes turn on him.

Jason clears his throat.

“Actually, seeing as you are here miss Superwoman Ma’am, may I request your assistance in an object lesson?” He asks.

Superwoman hovers another inch higher, conveying as much power and control as possible without moving.

“I don’t see why not Jason.” She says and Jason nods in acknowledgement.

He draws the gun again, spins it a few times to be dramatic, then ejects the magazine.

“If you would check this is standard ammunition…” He proposes.

There is a brief blur of movement and a sudden sharp gust of wind Bruce remembers from playing with Barry. Superwoman drops the magazine back into Jason’s waiting palm.

“I am satisfied this ammunition is neither magical, god-touched or containing Kryptonite.” She says.

Jason nods to acknowledge her then reloads the gun and offers it to Bruce again. This time Bruce only rests his hand on the handle for a moment before he takes it. It weighs in his hands like a black hole. How can metal weigh so much?

“Shoot her.” Jason says.

Bruce jolts out of a deep ingrained fear at the words. Superwoman smiles and steps forwards into the light. The dark shadows are chased away by the streetlight and colors flare into Bruce’s view; bright blue and red and golden hair curling around a face that no longer has red sparking in its eyes.

She steps forwards and onto the ground.

Bruce’s arms feel like warm lead, weight seems to be flowing down them and adding to the weight of the object in his hands. He needs to brace it with both hands just to lift it and when he does his arms shake with the struggle of holding it up. What was wrong with him, his arms feel as weak and floppy as cooked spaghetti. The sounds of crickets and distant cars are drowned out by the sound of his own breathing in his ears, rushing in like waves beating on a seashore cliff. The gun in his hands is lead, it is a bowling ball, it is a black hole for how heavy it feels to lift. He fights his unresponsive body to try and raise the weapon.

Superwoman smiles at him, entirely unafraid.

Bruce’s heartbeat is thumping in his ears and in his throat, the sound almost painfully loud and drowning out the world around him. Bruce tastes the bitterness of vomit starting to coat his tongue. He manages to make the herculean effort and force the gun up. His shoulders lock, his vision fading to black at the edges as he tries to aim. His arms are shaking and the gun barrel draws jittery figure eights in the air as he tries to force his trembling body to behave. A cold creeping chill runs down his spine, like someone had dumped ice-cream down the back of his shirt and it makes him feel feverishly sick. His spirit seems to shift in his skin, out of alignment and lagging behind but still half stuck to its prison of damp oozing flesh, unable to break free and observe from the outside. His mouth is desert dry and he tries to moisten it with the fat slug that had replaced his tongue but it sticks like glue to the dry skin. His breath catches in his throat and for a moment he is choking on it as he forgets how to breathe. The concrete under him ripples like the deck of a ship, rolling in and out with the motion of unseen waves. He can’t tell how far away he is from Superwoman, it seems to change from second to second. A wave of sudden nauseating cold breaks over him, making his hair stand on end and he feels a feverish sickness sweep over him.

She’s just standing there, unafraid, blue eyes, smiling, a hero, a _hero_ he has seen on countless news bulletins pulling survivors from the wreckage of natural disasters or addressing the press at the head of the Justice League. He can’t hurt her, she was invulnerable to standard ammunition and these were standard ammunition. He can’t hurt her, _he can’t hurt her_ , _HE CAN’T HURT HER!_

She was a hero, she was unafraid, she hadn’t done anything wrong, she didn’t deserve this…

Bruce’s finger is on the trigger but his hands are frozen in lifeless claws, he has no sensation in them, let alone motion. They could be chopped off at the wrist and he wouldn’t feel a thing. His shuddering grows worse and he forces his shaking arms to still. He sights down the barrel and sees her eyes, blue eyes, full of trust and hope and faith in _him_ and, and, and…

He can’t. He can’t, not her, not someone filled with so much love and care for humanity. He just _can’t._

He lowers the gun and in the next second falls to his knees. The rough pavement tears at his knees through the legs of his pyjama pants and his vision goes entirely black. He draws in a deep gasping breath to his aching, pained lungs, as violent as a scream in inverse.

Gentle hands take the gun from him and Bruce swears the handle clings to his fingers for a second before the weight of a world is lifted from his hands. Sensation rushes back to his fingers with a pins and needles prickling flowing down from his shoulders, as if the limbs had merely fallen asleep and he shudders as he drops back into his skin. A tear runs down his cheek. Immediately he is wrapped in the familiar warmth smelling faintly of cigarette smoke, gasoline and fried takeaway food that was Jason Todd’s arms. Something soft and warm and comforting wraps around him to shield him from the chill night air and Bruce dimly realizes it is Superwoman’s cape. She smells like vanilla and honey body-wash as her arms curl around him.

“I’m proud of you little soldier.” Jason’s reassuring gruff tone says as he presses Bruce against his chest.

“Is this what you had planned Jason?” Superwoman asks him in a tone mixing accusing and worried.

“Not…Not to this degree.” Jason confesses somewhat awkwardly.

“I had faith you would do the right thing Bruce.” Superwoman adds and Bruce starts to sob. He can’t stop it, the tears trickling down his face burn like molten metal as the black wave of despair crashes over him.

He knows he must look an ugly mess with the tears flowing so hard and fast he’s sure his nose is running too. His shoulders shake as he struggles to draw breath. He couldn’t…he couldn’t…Another small piece of his soul breaks and the despair grows. He is lost, lost in a despair that seems endless, without a light to guide him.

“I’m here buddy.” Jason mutters to him as he strokes his hair.

“It’s going to be okay.” Superwoman adds as she pats his back.

Bruce sniffles.

“Don’t want to hurt you.” He says in a whisper.

“Oh sweetheart you wouldn’t have hurt me.” She says to reassure him.

Bruce shakes his head and clutches tightly at Jason’s jacket.

“You…You didn’t do anything wrong.” His voice sticks in his throat in a gooey whisper.

Superwoman laughs, a high pure note like birdsong.

“I can think of several villains that would disagree with you.” She rests her hand on his shoulder and he opens eyes hazy with tears to look at her. “Bruce, I have faith that when it comes down to it you will always do the right thing.” She tells him.

Bruce nods and tries to wipe away his tears on his sleeve but they keep flowing over.

“You have a kind heart Bruce.” She tells him. “Keep it safe for me alright?” She asks.

Bruce nods again and she smiles.

“Is ‘Uncle Jason’ up to the task of making sure this brave boy gets back to bed?” She turns to ask Jason.

“I think so Superwoman Ma’am.” Jason says politely, turning to Bruce for his answer.

Bruce slowly nods and clings close to Jason’s jacket.

Superwoman smiles and waves goodbye before she disappears back into the night sky.

“You did good kid.” Jason says with a sigh and picks Bruce up.

“I couldn’t do it.” Bruce says and his voice wavers. Jason flinches as he recognizes the tone.

“Hey now, don’t cry.” He says to reassure Bruce. “Not pulling the trigger doesn’t mean you’re weak, it means you’re strong.”

“…I don’t feel strong Jason.” Bruce says and hides his face in the shoulder of Jason’s jacket. “I feel lost.”

“I know bud.” Jason sighs. “I know.” He leans back against the bike for support and cradles Bruce to his chest. He runs his fingers through the boy’s hair to comfort him. “But that feeling won’t last forever. Nothing does.”

“I don’t know what to do.” Bruce sobs. “Please tell me what I have to do Jason.”

“I’m sorry bud.” Jason says softly. “I can’t do that. You have to walk your own path.”

“There’s nothing.” Bruce says in that curious tone bleached of all emotion. “There’s nothing but darkness Jason. I have nothing.”

“That’s not true.” Jason tells him. “You have me, you have Dick, you have a _family_ Bruce and you have friends, friends who want to help.”

Bruce sniffs and wipes his eyes on his sleeve.

“Trust me little soldier the darkness _will_ pass.” Jason says, making eye contact so Bruce can tell he is speaking from personal experience. “You’ll find the way forward, and trust me it doesn’t have to be with a gun in your hand, not if you don’t want it to be.”

Bruce sighs. He is tired, worn out. He can’t even feel sad anymore, he has cried all his emotions out and all that is left is a bone-deep tiredness.

“I’m sorry.” He says.

“You don’t have to be sorry Bruce, never be sorry about asking for help.” Jason tells him. “I was up anyway.” He chuckles. “Though I would appreciate you not taking Dick’s phone next time. If I had known it was you I would have picked you up a mars bar or something.”

“I deleted the message after I got your reply.” Bruce tells him.

“Huh. Smart kid.” Jason says and ruffles his hair. “I take it that means you don’t want me telling Dick what just happened?”

“Please.” Bruce murmurs.

Jason sighs.

“Alright I’ll keep your secret for you if you promise me next time you feel like this you call me right away, deal?” He asks.

Bruce nods.

“Deal.” They shake on it.

Bruce yawns and Jason puts him down.

“Bed time for you little soldier.” Jason tells him.

“Yeah.” Bruce nods. “And…thank you, for everything.”

Jason ruffles his hair.

“Anytime Bruce, anytime.” He says and extends a fist. Bruce bumps it with his fist. Jason smiles to himself and puts his helmet back on.

The familiar thrum of the motorcycle engine sounds in Bruce’s ears, growing fainter as he makes his way back through the fairground. The night-noises return, comfortingly familiar after so long on the road. He doesn’t even flinch when a clumsy bat misjudges its glide and he hears leathery wings flapping over his head. The night’s cold has seeped through his clothes and raises goose-bumps on his skin. He shivers but still waits a moment before the trailer door with his heartbeat in his throat. He dusts off his feet as best he can to delay the moment, then takes a deep breath and carefully eases open the door. The darkness within takes some getting used to compared to the better lit outdoors but the silence is broken only by Dick’s slow steady breathing and not a reprimand for leaving. He’s still asleep.

Bruce breathes out in relief and carefully closes the door behind him, making sure not to blow it this late in the game as he creeps across the floor and returns the jacket to its hook. There, he has gotten away with it. He forces his heartbeat to steady as he stands in the middle of the floor and adjusts to the dark again.

He looks from his own barely made bed to Dick, still peacefully asleep with his arms around the dent in the pillow where Bruce had woken up. He smiles a small smile of resignation and climbs back into Dick’s bed. Dick grumbles something intelligible under his breath at the sudden press of a cold body in his bed but only curls his arms tighter around Bruce’s shoulders. Bruce closes his eyes and hugs Dick back as he drifts to sleep.


	7. Keystone City

Of all the towns on the route Keystone City was one of the one’s Bruce liked the most. It was a decent sized city, not like some of the glorified truck stops that claimed the title (Bruce still thought of a ‘proper’ city in how it compared to Gotham) and it lacked the dignity and charm of ancient architecture, but it was clean and big and busy. Keystone City shows were always _fun_ , and some shows you had to work harder at than others, but a Keystone City show was just as fun for the performers as the audience.

Bruce couldn’t see himself settling down anywhere but Gotham, but Keystone City was the city he most loved visiting. It wasn’t as sanitized as Metropolis but it wasn’t infested either. There was something _real_ about it.

Dick liked visiting his friend in Keystone, which was enough for Bruce to like it too. Dick staying out late with his work friend meant he had the adult supervision of the average playground to get into trouble. Bruce had many private projects he enjoyed working on when Dick wasn’t around to tell him to be polite or stay safe.

One of them was finding the tallest possible thing he could climb to get a good look at the city; in this case it was the sign bearing the circus’s name. He is perched in the middle of the H in Haly’s when he spots a familiar head of red hair.

“Uncle Wally!” Bruce calls out as he sees him enter the fairgrounds and jumps down from the sign. He grabs the pole with one hand, half sliding and half falling to the ground below, and tucking into a half-roll at the bottom to take the pressure of the landing off his knees. He straightens up, brushing dust off his jacket and smiles.

“Bruce, I told you to stop doing that!” Dick calls out and Bruce rolls his eyes as he hugs Wally tightly around the middle.

Wally reaches down and ruffles his hair.

“Good to see you bud, how’s my favorite little acrobat been doing?” He asks.

Bruce liked Uncle Wally; Wally liked jokes and food and racing.

“I did three backflips in a _row_ yesterday!” Bruce says proudly.

“Good job.” Wally smiles.

“Did you bring me a present?” Bruce asks.

“Right to the point huh?” Wally laughs. “Sure did.”

Dick gives him a warning look as Wally hands him a package colourfully but inexpertly wrapped.

“Thank you.” Bruce remembers to say as he takes it and tears into the wrapping.

“That better not be from the evidence locker.” Dick says as he catches up.

“Flash museum gift shop, I promise.” Wally laughs.

Bruce holds the case holding the bladed boomerang up to the light.

“Neat.” He declares. “This is absolutely going in my collection.”

He notices there is a kid hiding behind Wally. He’s staring at Bruce with a wide-eyed look like seeing someone jump from a high place and immediately tackle someone else with a hug is a new and exciting experience for him. Bruce hasn’t seen him before but he’s clearly here with Wally.

“Who’s the kitz?” Bruce asks Wally, using the Polari slang for a child.

“My nephew.” Wally says. “He’s going to be staying with me for a while.”

Bruce knows that Wally’s not telling him the whole truth but he lets it slide. Whatever has happened is still a fresh wound.

“Bruce Grayson.” Bruce introduces himself. He’s used to the fake name by now.

“Barry Allen.” The boy says shyly, sheltering behind Wally’s leg.

He offers a hand to shake and Bruce slaps his palm, bumps elbows and clicks his fingers in a traditional circus greeting. Barry looks confused but tries a smile.

Dick’s phone beeps in his pocket and he checks it and winces.

“Ah, shoot, Wally, we really have to get this.” Dick says with a frown.

He shows Wally something on his phone and Wally winces too.

“Yeah, that needs to be fixed.” He says and reaches down to ruffle Barry’s here. “Barry, be good until we get back.” He tells.

Barry nods enthusiastically.

“Bruce, play nice with Barry while I’m gone.” Dick tells him, his voice light and casual but his eyes giving a stern reminder that if he doesn’t behave he’s going to be in big trouble.

Bruce frowns and looks at the kid Wally has bought with him. Skinny and scruffy with a wiry frame and a big dumb smile on his face to match his guardian’s. The smile dims a bit as Bruce looks him over with cold, calculating eyes, the look Tim called ‘Detective vision’. Bruce puts his hands in his pockets, squaring his shoulders to make himself look bigger on instinct. Some habits got bred in the bone and Gotham City bravado was one of them. Bruce snorts and looks unimpressed.

He leans against the wall and with a deft flick pulls out his pocket-knife and skewers an apple from the crate that had been delivered this morning for making toffee apples. He lifts it up and starts to peel it with the blade in one long unbroken spiral.

When he cuts off the spiral of peel he turns the peeled apple over in his hands, checking to see it was perfect, goes to take a bite, then chucks it as fast as he can at Barry. Barry doesn’t move and it bounces off his shoulder, leaving a damp patch on Barry’s shirt, and rolls onto the floor in the dust.

Bruce shakes his head.

“Bruce…” Dick says warningly and gives him one last glare before he and Wally leave. Both Bruce and Barry look at the apple lying forlornly in the dirt.

“Tch.” Bruce clicks his tongue, sounding unimpressed. “Come on rube.” He jerks his head to the side to indicate the kid should follow him before turning his back on him and walking away.

Bruce is gratified to hear the younger boy quickly following behind.

He leads him to the props trailer at the side of the currently abandoned main tent where he leans against it with a sigh and fumbles in his pocket for a battered paper box. He shakes the box, grabs the white cylinder that falls out and tucks it between his lips.

“Want one?” He asks.

Barry shakes his head rapidly with his eyes wide with shock and Bruce shrugs.

“Suit yourself.” Bruce says and savors the look on Barry’s face as he bites down with a crunch.

“Wait...you...!” Barry splutters incoherently and sniffs the air. “That's a peppermint candy stick!”

“Sure is.” Bruce says with a grin. There had been an argument over Jason buying him candy cigarettes but Bruce was firmly on Jason’s side in the debate. “And seeing as how you said you didn’t want any...”

“I changed my mind, I do!” Barry says fiercely and Bruce decides to be the bigger man and chuckles as he hands one over to Barry.

The next few minutes are silent as Bruce splits the packet of candy sticks between them. Bruce crunches down one last bite of sweet peppermint and looks Barry dead in the eyes.

“Barry, you’re a metahuman aren’t you?” Bruce asks and Barry jolts like he’s been electrocuted and chokes. Crumbs of peppermint candy pepper the dusty ground then he disappears.

Bruce carefully reaches in front of him to check that Barry hasn’t turned invisible but his fingers slip through empty air.

Interesting.

The sun shines, the birds sing, the wind blows and there is nothing but undisturbed silence as the dust settles back around his feet. There aren’t even footprints left behind, just a blurred line in the dust.

Bruce puts another stick of peppermint candy in his mouth and starts to silently count. He gets to two hundred before Barry reappears and this time he catches a flare of golden light around him. The air through the open door of the trailer is stirred as if by the start of a storm, making the pages of the stacked flyers rustle like leaves on a tree. The blur of motion is roughly human sized but in streaks of melting colors that distort its shape into an ever-shifting blob.

“Owiduow?” Barry says too fast for Bruce to understand what he’s saying. He only catches half of the sounds, cut off awkwardly by the speed with which they were said.

Bruce looks at him blankly and taps his ear. The blur grows worse for a moment then settles into a more humanoid shape.

“Howdidyouknow?” Barry asks with the words blending into one in a panic.

He is vibrating with nervousness, not metaphorically but literally. His entire body is a motion blur, like a smeared frame in a video and his face has become nothing but a streak of skin color in the blur. Golden light is sparking around his body, partway between a corona and an electrical fault. He doesn’t look entirely real, like he’s fading in and out of reality. Bruce feels that if he reached forwards his hands might slip through him like a ghost.

Bruce should be scared, he knows he should be. It seemed nearly every day there would be news of a new metahuman disaster. Buildings destroyed, families and homes torn apart, lives lost. He should be scared.

He was fascinated.

Bruce reaches a hand, slowly, carefully, into the motion blur and for a moment there is just air around his fingertips whipped by the impression of something moving very fast, then he touches the fabric of Barry’s shirt. It hums beneath his fingers.

Barry settles, the motion blur now only a hazy outline to his body, and Bruce can see his face. He looks afraid.

“You didn’t catch the apple.” Bruce tells him. “When you throw something at someone who’s not expecting it they catch, flinch or dodge. I read it in a book. You let it hit you because you saw it coming and knew it wasn’t a threat, because you were fast enough to see it coming.”

Bruce tries to make eye contact but Barry is still humming with nervous energy and his eyes are streaks of darker color bobbing in the pale smear of his face.

“Pleasedon’ttellanyone!” Barry begs, the speed giving his voice odd hums and echoes.

“I won’t.” Bruce promises. “Metahumans are about as unpopular as us circus folk, I’m not going to betray a fellow outcast to the ‘stream.”

Barry looks confused.

“Circus cant, from mainstream, it means baseline humanity, the great unwashed masses.” Bruce explains. “Can you settle down a bit?” Bruce asks. “Looking at you is going to give me motion sickness.”

Barry sits down, looking like there’s a risk he’s going to vibrate straight through the chair, and holds his head in his hands. He takes a deep breath to try and steady himself and the buzz of motion mostly fades back to normal.

“I am in so much trouble.” He says to himself.

“It’s okay, I’m _not_ going to tell anyone.” Bruce says to reassure him. “And I can prove it. Wait here.” Bruce orders Barry and gets up and walks to the fortune-teller’s tent.

He ducks under the tent flap and wrinkles his nose at the strong smell of incense.

“Hi Sybil.” He greets the fortune-teller as she packs up her props. “Can I borrow some magic stuff for a bit?”

“What for Spook?” Sybil asks him.

“I’m gonna freak out a rube.” Bruce tells her.

“Ah, a noble cause then.” She reaches to the top shelf and drops a thick leather-bound book with mystical looking symbols embossed in gold on the cover into his arms. She makes the magical looking but ultimately meaningless gesture of the god of cons, scams and tricks in front of him. “Go with the Traveler's blessing young one.” She says solemnly.

“Thanks Sybil!” Bruce grabs three colors of chalk, the pewter goblet with the paste gems, some of the special pre-dribbled candles, the lighter in the shape of a dragon’s head and the rainbow-colored cord.

He returns to Barry with these in hand.

“We’ve got to swear an oath of secrecy.” He says solemnly and Barry nods with his eyes wide.

Bruce draws a circle in the red chalk, a smaller one in the yellow and a star in the middle with the purple chalk. He puts candles at each point and lights them with the dragon head lighter then flicks through the pages of the illustrated book of children’s stories until he finds an appropriately spooky illustration. He props the book up on the bench and rests his arm in the circle like they’re about arm wrestle.

“Grab my hand.” Bruce orders and Barry takes it with an awed expression. Bruce can barely keep himself from laughing out loud.

He ties their wrists to each other with the braided rainbow colored cord, making it up as he goes along. He puts the goblet into the center of the circle and takes his pocket knife out of his pocket.

“We swear in blood.” He says solemnly and Barry flinches but slowly nods.

Bruce cuts the tip of his finger first to show willing then hands Barry the knife. Barry winces as he nicks the tip of his finger enough for it to start to bleed. The mingled drop of blood runs from their interlinked fingers and into the waiting cup.

“I swear not to betray the secrets of the one whose blood is mingled with mine in the sacred pact.” Bruce intones and a name comes to mind. “Or Barbatos, the God of a thousand faces and none, will cut off my face for his collection.” He swears an oath. “Now you say it.”

Barry stutters his way uncertainly through the oath, needing reminding every three words of what the next part to say is. Bruce shouldn’t be taking so much pleasure in how afraid Barry is but damn, it was funny.

Bruce leans over the circle. The flames throw unnatural shadows onto his face.

“The pact is sealed.” He intones and blows out the candles. Barry flinches as the wisps of smoke curl in the air.

“That’s it?” Barry asks.

“That’s it.” Bruce nods. “We’re now sworn to secrecy, on pain of personal attention of the Father of Bats.”

Barry smiles weakly, clearly a little unnerved by the whole ceremony.

Bruce breaks the chalk circle with a swipe of his hand, unties the cord and closes the book.

“Now we’re bonded, you can tell me anything.” Bruce tells him. “How did you get your powers?”

“My mom…My mom was killed by a man in a yellow suit.” Barry says. “He said…He said that the time was wrong, that I wasn’t supposed to…become…” Barry looks at him as if hoping Bruce will know what those words mean. Bruce remains quiet. “He framed my dad for her death.”

Bruce recognizes the tone, it’s the same tone he used when he was talking about his own parents. It was near bleached of emotion, the sadness so deep and enduring it had become a bone-tired weariness.

“My parents were killed too.” He says softly. “A…friend of theirs was framed for it. A detective friend of Dick's is helping with the legal defense. Maybe he can help you too.”

Barry breathes out and shakes his head.

“No-one believes me but Wally.” He says.

“I believe you.” Bruce says in full honesty and when Barry looks up Bruce sees the gratitude in his eyes.

“Do you want a hug?” Bruce asks.

“Wally said you hate it when people touch you.” Barry points out.

“I do, but sometimes, when the dark thoughts come, you need something physical to be an anchor to remind you you’re not in that dark place anymore. It’s a reminder there are people who care about you and will keep you safe.” Bruce says from memory and give a one-shoulder shrug. “Just thought I’d offer.” He says.

Barry hesitantly nods and Bruce wraps his arms firmly around the younger boy’s shoulders. His skin prickles in distaste at a stranger being so close but he suppresses the desire to let go. Instead he focuses on channeling Dick as he makes the hug as firm and comforting as he can. An awkward few moments pass before Barry noticeably stirs and Bruce releases the hug.

“Thanks.” Barry says, clearing his throat with a small cough. His eyes look like he has been crying before but Bruce can’t see any other sign of tears. Bruce wonders if he had cried in speed-up time. “After that a man in a red suit appeared and there was this explosion, like I was struck by lightning. I was in a coma for three days and when I woke up…I had this _connection_ to this weird energy.”

“What does it do?” Bruce asks him.

“It’s hard to explain.” Barry says. “When I run, it’s like there’s this point and when I pass it I get faster but it’s also like the world gets slower around me? I can see things like a bee’s wings beating. If I pick up a book I can read it in what feels like normal time to me but when I put it down it’s only been a second.”

Bruce frowns.

“Shouldn’t friction...?” He asks.

Barry shakes his head.

“It doesn’t. Don’t know why but it doesn’t.” He tells Bruce. “STAR labs are helping find out why, I do some tests for them sometimes.”

Bruce hums as thinks things over.

“Do you have any other abilities?” He asks, thinking of the Kryptonians on TV.

Barry shakes his head.

“No…Well, I can see things that are fast and think fast without having to _move_ fast.” He adds. “That’s how I saw the apple you threw, and if I read something fast then I can remember all of it, just not for long.”

“Prove it.” Bruce asks.

“What?” Barry asks.

“I want you to show me how your abilities work, we can do some tests too.” Bruce tells him.

“O-Okay.” Barry is still nervous but seems to be warming up to him now he doesn’t have to keep a secret. He’s fidgeting but doing so at a speed that makes it look like a video game glitch. Bruce can see not having to slow himself down is a weight off his shoulders.

Bruce points out his trailer to Barry.

“Without being seen, go into that trailer and find the second book on the third shelf of the blue-painted bookshelf.” He tells Barry. “Read it and bring it to me.”

Barry nods and disappears with another flash of light. Ten seconds later he is back, skidding to a stop with a cloud of dust billowing around him. Bruce holds the book and opens it to a random page. His eyes dart down it.

“What does the footnote on page 233 say?” He asks.

“Triddlins; A short and unnecessary religious observance performed daily by the Holy Balancing Dervishes of Otherz, according to the _Dictionary of Eye-watering words._ ” Barry recites from memory.

“Cool!” Bruce says with enthusiasm as he puts the book down and Barry beams with pride. “That is really, really just…cool! What else can you do?”

“If I focus my vibrations I can slip through things.” Barry says. “But it’s scary.”

“Hmmm.” Bruce hums, thinking of all the things he can do with the props trailer, an empty tent and a metahuman friend. He just got a new project to entertain himself while Dick is gone. “I think I have an idea.”

The radio drones on outside, providing live coverage of the fight Bruce would ordinarily be fighting to get a glimpse of, but is now ignored for his new playmate. Bruce had never met a metahuman before, not a real one in the flesh that he could talk to. Now that his secret is out Barry seems to be happy to do anything the older boy asks him too and, after he has sent Barry to get his notebook, Bruce happily falls into a role between teacher and scientist.

He borrows Zenya’s throwing knives (throwing knives is one of the first things he trained in after the rock fight in Opal City) and tests if Barry can grab them out of the air before they hit the board. He kills some time seeing just how many knives Barry could pull from the air before they hit, until both of them get bored. Bruce suggests his favorite ‘game’ of playfighting, or sparring as Bruce insisted it be called.

Barry may be fast and partially intangible but he still can’t throw a punch. About the most he can muster is pushing someone and running away. Bruce scolds him and lectures him about the necessity of learning how to defend yourself (and Jason had made it very clear it was necessary). Barry says he doubts he was going to ever fight the Flash or any of the supers but agrees to learn after Bruce throws him. After teaching Barry some Judo moves until. Bruce was satisfied he had learned them _properly_ Bruce teaches him how to break out of holds if some bad guys ever try to kidnap him.

After that enthusiasm is still running high so Bruce teaches him how to escape handcuffs, which takes a bit longer.

Bruce had taken to escapology like a fish to water after he heard Jason learned it at the circus. While Dick took a while to get used to it, it had developed into a great opening act. Bruce was happy he could finally contribute to the show. Dick had talked to Bruce about getting a proper act, maybe being the Flying Graysons again. There were plenty of children in the circus that worked with their families in their acts and Bruce was Bruce Grayson on paper, but he wanted his own act, something no-one else had.

Barry finds out that it is harder than it looks; even if he vibrates his hand straight through the lock he can’t manipulate the tumblers. Vibrating his wrists through the cuffs isn’t as easy as it sounds because the cuffs want to move with his wrists, if he really focuses he can move his wrists without the cuffs but then the cuffs start to heat up from the air resistance. It takes quite a bit of focus before Barry narrows the area of effect enough that his wrists are moving but the cuffs are still, then they fall to the ground, still locked, with a ‘clink’.

“Wow, great job!” Bruce says with enthusiasm and Barry beams. Bruce picks them up, noting the lingering heat around the inside edge. “Now let’s see if you can do it with your hands behind you and this time try not to give away you’re out of them.”

This time Barry manages to catch the cuffs before they fall, without giving away he had broken out of them and Bruce beams at his progress.

After some further direction Bruce directs Barry to sit so he can try breaking out of rope next. Using the coil of rope he used for his escape acts Bruce ties the most diabolical knots he knows of just to make sure Barry isn’t having an easy time of it.

Barry struggles for a solid five minutes against the strong but flexible rope before giving up with a look of frustration.

“It just won’t go!” He complains. “The rope is cutting into my hands and I can’t get it to move separate from me!”

Bruce pauses, falling into detective vision once more as he observes the situation.

“I want to test a hypothesis.” He says and unties Barry.

Going to the props box he finds some plastic zip ties and zips Barry’s wrists together, tight enough to cut into the skin.

“These are even tighter! How am I supposed to…?” Barry starts to complain before Bruce silences him with an icy look.

“Don’t pass through them. Melt them.” Bruce says. “Create heat.”

Barry twists his wrists and there is a complicated moment before both ties melt and snap.

“I did it!” Barry says excitedly.

Bruce nods thoughtfully in acknowledgement then holds up the rope again.

“Now apply that principle to the rope.” He instructs and Barry nods rapidly, letting Bruce tie him up again. “Rope is held in position by its tension so don’t worry about being subtle. Break through it then _run_.” He orders.

This time Barry only needs a few minutes of intense concentration before there is a snap, the bitter smell of melted plastic and singed fiber and the cut ropes fall to the ground. Their edges still smolder with tiny pinpricks of golden ember before they fade to a singed black and Barry appears at his side.

“Awesome!” The boys say at the same time and hi-five.

“We’re back!” a familiar voice calls out from not too far away. Dick is back.

“We got pizza!” Wally adds.

Barry looks at him with worried eyes, wordlessly begging Bruce not to say anything.

Bruce mouths ‘the pact is sealed’ to him before turning back to the door.

“Coming!” He yells back and shoves the burned ends of rope under the bench, mentally promising to dispose of it before Dick finds it.

There are three whole boxes of steaming hot pizzas ready for them when they make their way down.

Bruce has spent enough time with him to notice that Barry is slowing himself down again when he digs into the hot food. Bruce doesn’t blame him; his abilities probably use a lot of power. He hypothesizes the energy expenditure must be massive. Bruce takes care to slide some extra slices over to Barry, making excuses about not being very hungry when Dick gives him a look.

They chatter through a censored version of the day’s events; Dick smiles, Wally laughs and Bruce makes sure his friend is eating. Not long after the last of the pizza is gone Wally says goodbye and Barry waves.

Bruce swears he hears something about ‘more pizza in the car’ before they leave.

Dick folds his arms and give Bruce his ‘I know you’re hiding something from me’ look.

“Spill the beans, why were you giving Barry extra food?” He asks.

Bruce shrugs and avoids meeting his eyes as he puts the book back on the blue bookshelf.

“He’s a growing boy.” He says airily.

“So are you.” Dick is unimpressed.

“We made a blood oath to the bat god, Dick, I am sworn to secrecy!” Bruce tells him.

Dick sighs.

“I _know_ you don’t believe in blood oaths, or bat gods.” He says. “And don’t make one up, it might attract…things.”

Bruce rolls his eyes.

“I might not believe in blood oaths but I believe in my friends.” He says.

“Bruce…” He starts to say and Bruce recognizes the tone means he is in for a teasing.

“Dick, don’t you _dare!_ ” He says in warning.

“Bruce made a friend~!” Dick sings in a sing-song voice.

“I didn’t say that!” Bruce protests.

“Yes you did, you said he was a friend!” Dick says gleefully. “You said you believe in your friends~!”

“Okay so he’s a friend, so what?” Bruce says and rolls his eyes. “I have lots of friends.”

“Don’t you see Baby Bat, you’re socializing~!” Dick smiles and snatches up Bruce. “You’re finally growing up!” He declares as he hugs Bruce closely.

“I hate you.” Bruce mutters without any genuine intent as Dick kisses his cheek.

“I hate you too.” Dick says equally insincerely and ruffles his hair.

Bruce feels the weight in his pocket and examines Wally’s gift again.

Conceptually it interested him; Bruce enjoyed the throwing knifes but he always felt that you could do better than a flat blade. If it curved, the blades arching in a circle to embed themselves by your target’s ear…That would be an act, one no-one else had. The shape, the shape was still too simple but maybe…

Bruce starts making plans.

First he would need some throwing knives, some long nails and a big hammer…


	8. Wayne Manor

By the time the jury convenes Bruce is a mess.

He had stuck to his pre-prepared statements, which was good because he was disassociating so hard he spent the whole trial hovering somewhere near the ceiling, looking at the back of his own head. The courtroom had the surreal quality of a nightmare about it; it was a place where words became unintelligible disconnected syllables, then just slurred and hissed sounds as free of meaning as the sound of leaves rustling in the wind. The voices all blend together into one staticky mess issuing from an indistinct blob of a person that seems to change shape like a funhouse mirror.

Bruce sees the eyes on the doll-like figure below that he vaguely recognizes as himself. He knows his words would have come out as robotic or even hostile, even if he had still been in his skin. He wonders if he cried. He can’t tell without seeing the figure’s face.

The tiny doll figure of Dick below wraps his arms around doll Bruce in a comforting hug. He doesn’t feel it. Time ceases to exist, except as a thick amorphous mass that lies on the room like the air before a storm, shifting in waves where one moment seems to be by in seconds and the next takes a thousand years. He would be completely lost but Tim, sitting on his other side, keeps handing him M&Ms under the table every fifteen minutes and it keeps him grounded. Bruce is thankful for the reminder he still has some connection to the distant puppet his body has become, even though he can no longer taste. He’s afraid without it he might float higher and higher until he is so high above the city he won’t be able to find his way back to his body.

The doll figures below scuttle around like insects on a kitchen bench; gathering, separating and eventually leaving the room at a crawl. Doll Bruce is halfway down the courthouse steps before he slips back into his skin again. Sound rushes back and he feels the setting sun warm on his skin. He frowns and tips the slurry of warm candy from his hand, the melted confectionary staining his palm with a mottled rainbow of leaked food-dyes. He looks around and finds Tim. ‘We won’ Tim mouths to him and a wave of relief crashes over Bruce so strongly it nearly knocks him out of his body again. Tears prickle at the corners of his eyes.

It has been nearly three years since he had last been able to do this, but when he takes the stairs three at a time to wrap his arms around Alfred’s waist in a tight hug it feels like less than a week.

“There, there Master Bruce.” He says as he rests a comforting hand on Bruce’s dark hair. “It has been a while, hasn’t it?”

“I missed you.” Bruce says as he clings close.

“I missed you too.” Alfred says softly. “And I’m sorry.”

“But you didn’t do anything.” Bruce says.

“I should have warned them, I should have taken the threats seriously, I should have made sure they stayed at home that night...” Alfred says and it is clear he has spent a long time thinking about this. “I should have _protected_ you Master Bruce, and I did nothing. Can you ever forgive me?”

“Alfred you don’t, you don’t need to...” Bruce says with his voice tiny and cracking at the edges with sadness.

“Please, it would make this old man very happy to hear it.” Alfred says in his most soothing voice.

“I...I forgive you.” Bruce says.

 “Thank you.” Alfred wraps his arms around Bruce’s back. “Thank you.”

Dick smiles a small sad smile as he watches them hug. Bruce is holding the butler close in the way he did when he was crying but didn’t want people to see. His tiny shoulders are shaking with emotion.

“Touching, isn’t it?” Barbara says as she steps to his side. “I’m a sap for happy endings.”

“I’m sure you’re glad the trial is finally done.” Dick says to her as they make their way down the steps.

“It’s not fizzy champagne time just yet Dick.” Tim tells him. “We still have the real murderer to catch.”

Barbara sighs.

“And far too little evidence to do it with.” She adds with a glum look.

“The truth will out.” Tim says offhandedly. “Even if its an uphill struggle.”

The car waiting for them is a sleek and shiny black, as different from the beat-up old clunker he usually drove as a Great Dane was to a Pug. It practically oozes old money and even though Dick knew it fit the sensibilities of Gotham society and its famously atrophied sense of style, Dick is reminded uncomfortably of a hearse.

Dick _liked_ the clunker. It was far from perfect, it had obviously been lived in, but that made it human, made it part of the real world, not like the big black car that belonged to world he’d only glimpsed through half-open doors but that Bruce fit into as effortlessly as a fish to water.

The way he talked whenever they were in this city, the way he moved like he was wearing the streets as a second skin, it was obvious. This was his true home. It was the place where he belonged and Dick didn’t. It was a simple cold fact but that didn’t stop an ugly jealousy from clawing at Dick’s heart.

The trial had been a tough fight hard won but it had been a complete victory on their part. Dick knew it would be; the purpose of the exercise was to tie up enough time and money that going to trial was uneconomical. The cowardly bastards that were pressing charges didn’t care much about the butler’s innocence or even if he served time, just that saving him was as difficult as possible. Dick was disgusted but not surprised. The Gotham legal system had holes in it wide enough to drive a bus through; it was notoriously easy to get someone innocent in legal trouble and notoriously hard to get someone out of it. Dick still didn’t know who was behind the effort to frame him but anyone with money to throw around could fake a conviction to leave Bruce out in the cold and the economic future of the company uncertain.

Now the trial was over and Alfred Pennyworth cleared of all charges the only legal document that they needed to concern themselves with was the many-layered Last Will and Testament of Thomas and Martha Wayne.

As with all old established families, especially those with money behind them, rules of inheritance had been passed down for years, each shaped to ensure future generations were in accordance with the ancient ancestors that had earned the family fortunes in the first place. They didn’t make allowances for the individual circumstances a descendant could find themselves in.

The facts could not be escaped; with all charges dropped the legal responsibility for Bruce reverted along terms of the Will, which left Dick with little legal claim to his care unless he adopted him. If Dick legally adopted Bruce he would lose his name and his inheritance. The Wayne’s Will made no allowance for a circus boy with no ties of blood.

Dick had done his best by Bruce, he’d done his duty to protect him, but there was still an old lurking fear that Gotham was going to somehow take Bruce away from him someday because he wasn’t good enough for him.

Dick suppresses the tiny shiver of guilt he feels at sitting in the shiny black car and tries not to think of it as an omen. Bruce was happy, he reminded himself, he was excited to show Dick and Barbara to his childhood home and Dick shouldn’t let the creeping hostility he felt around old money ruin that for everyone else. Still he feels a prickle of fear at coming up to the front door of the looming manor house.

It was just dinner, Dick tries to remind himself. Just a congratulatory dinner to celebrate the end of the trial. He shouldn’t feel this sense of dread.

He shouldn’t be afraid he was going to lose Bruce.

Alfred pulls open the door of Bruce’s childhood home and ushers him inside. Bruce steps in forward and Dick sees how the place seems to welcome him back as if no time has passed. The spectre of Bruce’s parents still hung over him, Dick suspected they would his entire life, and nowhere did it feel clearer than here.

The house felt to Dick like a mausoleum; a house of the dead haunted by memories. He couldn’t help but feel he might turn a corner and run into one of the Waynes as if no time had passed for them. The house seemed to belong to the dead not the living. Centuries hung heavy in the air like an invisible dust cloud, the age had seeped into every part of the building until the air itself was saturated with it.

The grandfather clock ticks on, the only sound in the vast, empty, echoing halls they are walking. The ghost-pale faces of Waynes long past stare down at him, their dark eyes watching him from painted portrait frames. The dead outnumbered the living by far. This is our house, their empty eyes seemed to say, we just permit you to inhabit it for a while. The circus had a long tradition behind it but Dick had never felt dwarfed, no, in the thrall of those that had come before him. The legacy of his family tree had mostly consisted of doing flips good. There were no stern eyes of ancestors watching him from the walls and judging him. There was no birthright he could fail to live up to.

“The main hall chandelier could hold you.” Bruce says to him.

Dick blinks, replaying the sentence in the private theatre of his mind to make sure he heard it right.

“The main hall chandelier?” He asks.

Bruce nods.

“It’s the largest and the strongest, I bet it could hold both of us at the same time even.” He says. “I can distract Alfred for at least ten minutes if you want to have a swing.”

Alfred snorts disbelievingly. Dick can’t help but smile.

“It’s just a house, Dick.” Bruce says. “You went over all gloomy like you’re expecting it to bite you.”

Dick chuckles and ruffles Bruce’s hair.

“It’s nothing Bud, just had some bad experiences in old houses.” He says. “It’s the reason the circus doesn’t do private shows anymore.”

“Oh.” Bruce says. “Was it a sex thing?”

“Bruce!” Dick says, scandalized. Barbara laughs.

“You’d tell me if it was a sex thing, right?” Bruce asks more insistently.

“No, it wasn’t a sex thing.” Dick rolls his eyes. “You’ve been spending too much time with Jason. It’s rotting your brain.” He teases. Tim chuckles. “Let’s just say circus performers use the tradesman’s entrance and that was strictly enforced with more force than was strictly necessary.”

Bruce nods solemnly.

“But Dick, you are my guest.” He says. “That means I get to walk you around and you have to go ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ and look impressed.”

“Alright.” Dick says with a fond smile. Bruce clearly couldn’t care less about the rows of grim portraits or the ages that pressed thunderstorm-heavy in the air, they didn’t intimidate him and that reassured Dick. If Bruce was going to make his world make room for Dick, he didn’t feel so out of place. Look at him, feeling comforted sheltering behind a child. He really was on edge. He was already trying to get over a rejection that hadn’t happened yet.

‘I’m a guest.’ Dick silently tells the painted eyes. ‘Just a guest and I won’t be here long.’ He feels a little less like he is about to be punished for being here.

Bruce turns and surveys the ticking clock, the empty rooms, the ghost-like portraits, and raises one arm imperiously, like he was giving a command to a dog.

“House, no biting.” He orders it and Dick smiles. “Stay, good house.” Bruce adds and takes Dick by the hand to give him the tour _personally_.

Bruce helps ease Dick's discomfort by pointing out the little human touches; the nicks taken out of the bannister by an ill-fated attempt to surf down the stairs on a tea tray when bored, the alcove where he would sit while his father read him poetry, the willow tree in the garden where they had buried his pet hamster named Snowball and so on. After a point Dick is sure he’s making some of them up for effect, just to see what he can get away with. Dick smiles and lets Bruce make up what he wants. It was good too good to see him happy to call him out on his more outlandish stories.

Alfred chuckles to himself and directs them to the dining room. Everyone involved had insisted they didn’t need repaying but Alfred had insisted equally strongly that he be allowed to cook them a meal at least, before he forgot how to.

Dinner is too French for Dick to spell or correctly pronounce but delicious. It doesn’t escape him that Alfred has made Bruce’s favorite foods for him; it was a fitting welcome home for the young master.

The arabesque handled antique silverware of real silver, the kind he had often be accused of stealing, weighs heavily in his hands. Thankfully no-one seems to mind about the different levels of table manners on display in varying degrees of awkward politeness.

It’s probably a good thing that Jason wasn’t invited. A mental image pops into Dick’s head; Jason leaning back in his chair, with his boots on the table, probably seeing how much steak he could fit in his mouth before he must tear it off like a wild dog, just so he doesn’t have to waste time trying to cut it. Dick has to bite his tongue so he doesn’t laugh at the table.

Dick can’t honestly say he’s not a little sad when dinner is over and the conversation inevitably turn to the future. As much as he dreaded it, it was a conversation that needed to happen. The trial may be over (and he hadn’t felt so invested in a trial for years) but there was still a gunman on the loose that needed to be brought to justice. Traveler's tongue, it would be so easy to make that into an excuse, so easy to convince himself that he needed to keep Bruce away from Gotham to protect him. Lying could be so terribly, terribly easy. He could even lie to himself that it was necessary, which is why telling the truth tasted so bitter in his throat.

“Bruce, we’re going to have to have a serious talk.” He says over the last of dessert.

Bruce nods equally solemnly and stops his idle scraping of the last of the sauce from his bowl. He politely lays his spoon flat across it and gives Dick his full attention.

“Is this about what Spyral means?” He asks.

Dick coughs, aware that Tim is no doubt now curious as to how Bruce learned that name.

“That’s _another_ talk.” He says as tactfully as he can.

“It isn’t the talk about where babies come from is it? I already know that one, I have access to google after all.” Bruce adds.

“Bruce, I’m being serious.” Dick says firmly.

Bruce settles down at his tone. Dick internally winces. He was too on edge, it had come out harsher than usual and now Bruce was worried.

“The fact of the matter is that now the trial has concluded the legality of my care of you has come into question.” Dick says. “Your parents’ Will was very clear as to who will take legal custody of you after their death. I have no legal claim to your care.”

For Bruce’s sake he tries to present facts as unemotionally as possible but he can’t help the jealous stab at his heart at the thought of Bruce leaving. Broody hen was right. He knows every bird has to leave the nest sometime and so on and so forth but he had gotten so used to Bruce being in his life the thought of letting him go physically hurt. The trailer would be so empty without him; it would feel far too much like he had let Bruce die instead of returned him to his home. As much as it hurt to admit it, he had grown far too attached to the boy.

He had known from the start this was only temporary, he scolds himself, someday he was always going to have to return Bruce to Gotham. Bruce Wayne couldn’t be Bruce Grayson forever. He had just hoped he could put the moment off forever.

“Now the trial is over you are no longer under witness protection.” Dick adds. “And your care reverts along the terms of the Will.”

Bruce frowns, his expression growing dark.

“Does that mean you won’t look after me anymore?” He asks.

“Legally it is not my decision to make.” Dick says and his heart hurts.

Bruce’s nostrils flare and he pushes the chair out from the table. Dick recognizes the tell-tale signs of a tantrum brewing. Bruce had a habit of breaking things when he got upset, it was the only way he knew to get bad emotions out before they festered. They had managed to talk him down from breaking bones (namely his own) to breaking plates and Dick knows that wouldn’t be appreciated here.

“Dick, stop being an ass.” Barbara tells him.

Dick blinks in confusion.

“You’re making it sound like you don’t want him now you don’t have a legal responsibility for him.” Tim points out.

Dick silently curses.

“I am?” He says with more than a note of panic. “That wasn’t my intention…”

“ _We_ know that.” Barbara adds. “He doesn’t. Apologize.”

Dick immediately gets up from his seat so he can wrap his arms around Bruce’s shoulders in a tight hug.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry Buddy.” He says softly. “Look at me, I’m a mess, I am going to start bawling like a baby any second now. I was just trying to act cool so you wouldn’t worry about me, but I guess I went too far in the opposite direction.”

“I love you Dick.” Bruce says equally softly. It sounds like he’s trying not to cry. “I don’t want you to leave.”

“I don’t want you to leave too.” Dick says, borrowing Bruce’s trick of pressing close to the person he’s hugging so they don’t see how close he is to crying. “I was just afraid that I was being selfish, wanting to keep you for myself instead of letting you return to your family.”

“You are my family too Dick.” Bruce tells him. His tiny shoulders are starting to shake.

“No matter who you decide to stay wit,h I am always going to be here for you Bruce.” Dick promises him. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

“You scared me.” Bruce says in a small voice.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Dick apologizes in a whisper. “You don’t need to be afraid of losing me. I would never abandon you, ever. No matter what the law says I am always going to keep you safe.”

“Promise?” Bruce asks.

“I promise.” Dick says.

Bruce slaps him across the face and the sound echoes.

“Don’t ever do that to me again.” He orders and stamps his foot.

Dick holds his stinging cheek. Barbara is laughing at the table.

“Yeah, okay, I deserved that.” Dick says. “Feeling out of sorts is no excuse for rudeness. I will try to be more considerate of your feelings next time.”

“You’d better.” Bruce says warningly, setting his jaw with stubborn determination.

Dick can’t help but smile.

“Bruce, I said the decision isn’t mine to make, but I don’t want you to feel that the adults are making all the decisions about your life without you.” Dick tells him. “The choice is _yours_ to make.”

“This place will always be a home for you Master Bruce.” Alfred tells him as he rests a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder. “That will not change.”

“Thank you.” Bruce says solemnly. “It is my choice to make?” He asks again to clarify.

“It is.” Alfred confirms. “I will hold the Manor in stewardship until you are of age, Master Bruce. The homestead will be maintained.”

“Alfred, I love you and the manor is always going to be a home to me.” Bruce says. “But I can’t come back to it just yet. I want to stay with the circus. Besides, it looks like Dick won’t be able to cope without me.” He adds.

“Hey, dial back the sass a notch mister.” Dick says with wounded pride. “You were tearing up too, you ratbag.”

Alfred chuckles.

“We come to Gotham every year anyway.” Bruce says. “We can stay here instead of the Fairgrounds, can’t we Dick?” He asks with his eyes wide and hopeful.

Dick sighs. The old house still gave him the creeps but he can’t say no to that face.

“Of course we can Bruce.” He says.

Bruce nods solemnly, the gears clearly turning in his head as he makes plans for the future. He looks over the house, still unchanged from the lonely place it was when he had first run away from it, as he retakes his seat.

“The past is still important but I want to make new memories here too.” He says. “With all of you.”

“I'll drink to that.” Tim says, raising his glass for a toast.

Barbara raises her glass too and the rest of the table joins in.

“To new memories!” Bruce declares, holding his glass up.

“To new memories.” The rest of the table repeats then drinks.

Bruce beams as he drains his glass of the last dregs of juice.

Tim and Barbara arrange for their own ride back; a patrol car for Barbara so she can take her shift after dinner and a taxi to take Tim to the train station. Both want to go over some final details of the case, both to help further investigation and to make sure there won’t be problems later on. The gritty details still aren’t something Dick wants Bruce overhearing so, despite Bruce protesting he isn’t sleepy, Dick bids the three a goodnight. He sent a message to the circus asking for a pickup before they head out and received an answering message from Zenya, saying she found the place with no trouble.

“I told you we don’t need to go, I was there, nothing can be worse than that.” Bruce tries to argue.

“Your statements have already been taken, there’s nothing further you can add to the investigation.” Dick tells him with a fond smile. “Nice try.”

“I’m not tired yet!” Bruce tries to protest but yawns halfway through his sentence and frowns, looking terribly offended at his body for betraying him. “This means nothing.” He adds darkly.

Dick smiles to himself but says nothing as he pushes the door open. Bright lights flare from the darkness beyond. Bruce is blinded and his eyes twinge with pain before he realizes the assault on his senses is a camera flash.

It has been years since he had his picture taken by anyone but Dick and his friends or curious circus goers. He had forgotten just how bright the cameras of the media in full feeding frenzy could be.

Dick immediately moves in front of him to shield him from the cameras and the barrage of camera flashes grows brighter. Bruce feels sick; he’s glad he’s not epileptic or the rapid lights might have triggered a seizure.

“How do you explain the disappearance of Bruce Wayne from the media?” One reporter calls out and Bruce feels a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as the accusations start to fly.

“Why has it taken so long to return him to Gotham society?” Another reporter cries.

“Is this a ploy to gain access to his inheritance?” A third reporter asks and Bruce wishes he had thought to warn Dick just how terrible Gotham’s paparazzi could be. He should have known someone would have seen them coming out of the courtroom and tipped off the trashier of Gotham’s papers.

“How do you respond to accusations you paid the butler off to kill his parents?” Another reporter cries as Bruce shelters close against Dick's leg and gives his hand a reassuring squeeze. He hadn’t missed this part of Gotham life.

“Are you going to address the rumors you abducted Bruce to groom as a child sex slave?” The car seems far too far away and the reporters press as close as possible to slow them down further, throwing out more and more extreme accusations in hopes of provoking a reaction. Bruce struggles to keep his face a neutral mask like Dick’s as anger bubbles up inside him. How dare they, how _dare_ they! Hatred burns like bile in his throat.

“Mister Wayne, an interview!” A particularly bold reporter says and grabs his arm. Bruce panics and his training on what to do if someone grabs you takes over.

He puts one hand on the arm holding his, grabs the reporter by their shirt and tosses them over his shoulder. They collide with three other reporters and all four fall into a rose bed with a sound like four less than reputable journalists falling into a bed of long-thorned roses. There’s nothing else it could sound like; nothing could compare. It was the way they kept on getting in each other’s way while the thorns caught clothes and their struggling got them further stuck and stabbed by the thorns. Bruce learns a few interesting new words.

“Alright, get back you vultures.” A familiar voice says.

“He just...” One of the reporters says.

“He defended himself against an aggressor trespassing on private property, as will I if you don’t get out of my damn way.” The colonel says as he strides up the pathway. The reporters are left with no choice but to move or be trodden on. They see the eagle insignia on his uniform and quickly shuffle out of his way to let the colonel through to the steps. Bruce stands up straighter and salutes as the colonel approaches. Colonel Kane acknowledges the salute with a curt nod.

“I’m here to escort you gentlemen back to your residence.” The colonel declares and Bruce can tell Dick is guarded about accepting the offer. He moves to follow him before the stunned paparazzi flow back in to block them off. The four in the rose bed are still providing enough entertainment for them to slip away without being followed which is a mixed blessing. It leaves the two of them alone with the colonel for the last part of the pathway.

“I would have just decked him but it’s good to see Circus Boy taught you how to defend yourself at least.” The colonel says to Bruce as if Dick wasn’t there.

Dick doesn’t say anything as they stride down the pathway. The circus car is pulled up alongside the reporter’s vehicles, where it fits right in with the other cheap cars. At least they are unlikely to be followed. Zenya is doing her lipstick in the rear-view mirror but when she sees them approach she leans out and waves.

The colonel stops at the end of the gravel path, the tips of his toecaps over the line that separates the property from the road. He pauses, face fixed in a blank mask that shows no emotion.

“For what it’s worth…She would have been proud of you.” He says.

His outstretched hand is a peace offering and Bruce takes it and shakes it once, solemnly. A faint smile flickers briefly across the colonel’s face.

“Stay safe boy. You’ve got a rough road ahead of you.” He says and with that cryptic part warning, part blessing Bruce and Dick climb into the circus car and leave Wayne Manor behind them for another year.


	9. Jump City

Bruce fights his first villain at age thirteen. In his defense he didn’t mean to.

Bruce was bored.

He leaned back on his chair as he listened to the radio with half an ear. He had finished all his homework and he wasn’t allowed to try a new escape unless he had someone to spot him. His latest letter to Kal, written in their private code of phonetic Polari transliterated into the Kryptonian alphabet, is sealed and ready for posting so he can’t add to it.

It seemed there was nothing but trouble these days, no matter where the circus went there always seemed to be a disaster or alien invasion or a lunatic in spandex declaring himself emperor of the universe. For one strange night they had been in Metropolis and everyone had turned purple.

Bruce hated not having anything to do. It was like having an inch under the skin that grew stronger and more irritating if he tried to ignore it. As always he had plans and schemes on the go but nothing he could take action on until later. As much as he wishes he could he couldn’t make things go any faster. There was his books and his videogames but they felt like meaningless busywork and he knew from experience trying to distract himself with them would get him more frustrated by the end of it.

His blades are sharpened for tonight’s show, the curved and pointed blades resembling a silhouette of a bird in flight were a key part of his daredevil act. Dick is in town, doing whatever it is he did during the day, organized the shows Bruce guessed, arranged for permits and so on, or that’s what he claimed to be doing. Bruce doubts that is what he’s really doing; he’d overheard some things about performance evaluation, independent inspection, internal affairs and the phrase ‘Quis Custodiet’ had come up a lot. Dick was still refusing to answer questions about Spyral until Bruce got older so he had to work things out on his own.

Bruce decides to do some investigation, or as Dick put it, noisiness with a purpose.

With nothing else to do he decides to go looking for trouble. The morning show is done and the ring is set up for the night show later in the day. They were a circus not a carnival, there was just the main tent and tickets were sold at the gate; in the time between shows the Fairground belonged to them alone. As Bruce made his way between the trailers and tents everything about the place was familiar to him. Yet it seemed there was discord in his little kingdom…

Bruce steps from the trailer roof to beside Sybil counting her cards. She’s looking perturbed.

“Who I need to axe?” He asks, his usual way of asking what the problem is by threatening to murder someone.

Sybil doesn’t bat an eye at his sudden appearance; Bruce had made it a habit so often it had become part of the circus’s tradition in hazing newbies; seeing how many times he could jumpscare them before they caught on.

“Heya Spook.” Sybil says. “Zen says ‘e got a kitz barking up the midway in need of bouncing.” She tells him. Zenya says there is a lost child in the fairgrounds.

“Whose on sec?” Bruce asks her, abbreviating the word security.

“Davey.” She tells him.

“That rock-‘ed been chasing flutterwits again?” Bruce says disapprovingly, accusing the Coast City kid of being easily distracted.

“Coulda got slipped.” Sybil points out that Davey isn’t the hardest to sneak past. “’E’ll be a gawker.” She thinks the kid is just there to sightsee. “Mind showing off the egress?” She asks Bruce to see them off.

Bruce nods.

“Countin' cash.” He says. Consider it done.

Bruce is feeling pretty good about himself as he tracks down the kid. Zenya is performing in the next show and couldn’t spare the time to chase off some curious kid. Barking was circus slang for someone who was not only lost but disruptively so, and he couldn’t have that.

Even though he knows he shouldn’t Bruce kind of hopes they try to argue with him. He loved slipping smoothly from the accented Polari to oxford English perfect enough to make Alfred proud. Most of them wouldn’t even realize he’d insulted them until hours later.

The kid when he finds him is only a few years older than him and that still sends warning bells clanging in his head. Teenagers were the most difficult to get out of the grounds without a fight, but Bruce feels energized rather than fearful. He kind of wants it to come to a fight; that would scratch the itch of irritation lurking under his skin.

That hope is dashed when the teen sees him and smiles.

“Can you help, I think I’m lost?” He asks.

Bruce smiles back in his best customer-service way.

“Depends on where you’re heading.” He says.

“I’m looking for my dad.” He says. “He should be by the ticket takers but I got all turned around.”

The teen looks around the trailers and Bruce concedes it’s not easy to navigate for someone who doesn’t know it like he does.

“You’re not too far out of the way, I can lead you back.” He offers.

“Thanks.” Says the teen with a genuine smile and extends a hand to shake. “I’m Slade.”

“Bruce.” Bruce shakes the hand and leads the older boy through the dirt tracks back to the ticket booth. Tonight’s show is sold out and the booth is clearly closed but he’d seen worse customers ignore the signs.

“Here we are.” Bruce says as they reach the wooden booth by the main tent. In the time between shows there wasn’t much activity around the main tent. In fact the area is completely deserted. No sign of the teen's father. “What were you doing wandering around anyway?” He asks. Slade hadn’t seemed much interested in any of the tents or trailers and he hadn’t asked any questions about the performers.

Slade smiles.

“Finding a hostage.” He says and draws a small but sharp looking knife.

The teen lunges for Bruce. Bruce manages to roll out of the way of the slash. His training takes over and Bruce feels a red mist descending.

His world narrows to just him and the older boy with a knife, brawling in the dirt of the fairgrounds. Bruce strikes at wrist and arm to disable the blade, blocking with his arms as his opponent throws a punch of his own. Bruce concentrates on sinking blows into ribs, stomach, solar plexus, throat, face and crotch with his fists, feet and even a few headbutts in a chaotic mess of hissing and spitting like two alleycats. He manages to pin the teen’s arm to the ground and stomps on the wrist, hard, until he hears a crack and the knife drops.

Bruce’s breath is heaving in his throat, his shirt has been slit by the knife and a few shallow scratches sting with sweat dripping into the wounds but tastes the blood of the beast. He slams another fist into the teen’s face, feeling the sting of his split knuckles as he drags blood further across it. It feels amazing. Bruce breathes out a shuddering sigh as he stands with every muscle in his singing with the thrill of the fight. Slade glares up at him as he clutches at his injured wrist.

“Think again.” Bruce spits and an arm drops across Bruce’s throat. Bruce wonders who could have snuck up on him without him noticing.

Bruce chokes as he is lifted off his feet and bites down on the offending arm as hard as he can. His teeth don’t even mark the armor plates on the limb. Bruce kicks backwards as hard as he can but his foot bounces off more plating. With the pressure on his throat threatening to knock him out Bruce kicks forwards and catches the teen in the throat. Slade chokes, a look of pure hatred passing over his face and the grip on Bruce’s throat tightens.

“Enough.” Bruce’s captor says. His voice has a mechanical humming edge to it.

“I’m going to slit him like a pig!” Slade hisses as he picks up his knife.

“Maybe later, for now we need a live hostage.” The armored man says.

Slade snarls, looking for a moment like he is going to kill Bruce anyway then puts the knife away and kicks Bruce in the crotch so hard Bruce goes blind for a moment.

“We’ll have a rematch later baby bird.” Slade snarls and Bruce is too dazed by the pain and lack of air to question the nickname before the teen slinks away.

Bruce manages to croak out a questioning sound past the arm across his throat.

“You’re going to come with me nice and quiet and I won’t have to hurt you more for what you did to my boy.”  Bruce’s captor says and drags him back into the darkness of the empty main tent. The only light is sunlight streaming through the top of the tent. Bruce manages to twist against his captor’s grip enough to be able to breathe and the armored man grips the collar of his t-shirt warningly. Bruce looks around the empty tent for anything he can use and spots one of the prop mirrors leaning against the tent wall for tonight’s performance.

Bruce manages to get a good look at the man. The body armor he is wearing looks professional and high grade; reinforced with bulletproof plating and strapped with various secondary weapons where they would be in easy reach. The mask is the oddity; a single smooth minimalist faceplate with one half a solid black that covers the eye and the other half is white.

Bruce had made a borderline obsessive study of the threats of the world. The man was a ghost, caught in partial flickers on smeared frames of blurred photographs at best. Bruce didn’t have any information on him which didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous, just subtle.

“Easy now boy, don’t do anything stupid.” The mask distorts the words through a voice synthesizer that prevents them from being used to identify him. “I’d hate to have to shoot you.”

The barrel of a gun bumps against Bruce’s temple and it that moment the world seems to become perfectly clear. The world seems to go into slow motion and rather than disassociating Bruce finds his spirit and body have slipped into perfect synch with each other. Moving is as easy and natural as thinking. His entire body goes limp and the grip on him slips as he drops. The masked man is caught off guard by the sudden lack of resistance and is left with only one hand on him. Bruce follows up with a palm strike, smacking the gun out of his grip and sending it clattering across the floor. He grabs the hand holding him and twists it. The man releases his grip and Bruce is free.

“That…counts as something stupid.” The masked man says as he retrieves his gun but Bruce has already slipped into the shadows.

“I appreciate your guts kid but now I’ve got to hurt you.” He says as he cocks the gun. “It’s nothing personal, just business.”

From the way he is looking around Bruce guesses the mask must have night-vision. He remembers his training in breaking up his silhouette and stays statue still as he hides, until he’s sure the man’s gaze is off him.

“Like I’m going to believe that!” Bruce projects his voice to a location that looks like it could be a kid’s hiding place. “You’re probably going to eat my face or something.”

He watches the man turn in that direction and takes the opportunity to shift position. There had to be something he could use as a weapon somewhere…

“That’s not my kind of thing kid.” The man says. “I am a mercenary, I do business in a professional manner and my business for today requires a hostage. Nothing says it has to be one with intact legs.”

Bruce judges he’s probably telling the truth about the mercenary thing; the man had the calm detached manner of someone who views themselves as a professional but enjoys his work a little too much. He seems like someone in it for the thrill of the hunt where the money was just an added incentive to find the best prey. Bruce carefully drifts around the edge of the tent, keeping close watch to make sure he’s not giving away his position while still projecting his voice as a distraction.

“I’m just a circus kid, my parents don’t have any money!” He projects to behind a barrel.

The projected voice sounds afraid but Bruce is surprised to find he is completely calm. He should be scared, shouldn’t he? The man had held a gun to his head after all but the fear seems to be like a dark cloud on the horizon. Eventually it would get here but for now he was flying high.

“That might be so.” The mercenary says and takes the bait. “But I have a contract to fill and a hero to kill.” He edges around the barrel and Bruce edges further away. “My sources tell me that he keeps an eye on this place and he hates it when kids get hurt so I figure a kid from here is the perfect bait to lure him into the open.”

The mercenary pounces and Bruce escapes behind the seats before he realizes he’s been tricked. The rows of seating set-up for the night show had a metal frame and he climbs into the nest of metal beams like they were tree branches. Shooting him now would be nearly impossible without the bullet getting deflected. Bruce moves silently through the metal struts, keeping his eye on the mercenary.

His mind is racing; the man was an _assassin_ that explained why Bruce hadn’t seen him in the reports. An assassin that was hunting a hero to make things worse. Heroes weren’t just public figures, they were powerful ones too. Someone targeting one was a force to be reckoned with.

Bruce immediately starts going over the facts; who was this mercenary targeting? Which hero they were hoping to face would determine what they had bought in terms of weapons.

Bruce makes his way through the bars like a spider-monkey, treading silently on the metal struts with years of practice. He had years of experience playing hide and seek in the circus. The main tent was as much his territory as any place could be, he wouldn’t lose to someone new. His nickname was Spook for a reason.

Bruce keeps a close eye on the mercenary now they know he could project his voice. The seats were protecting him from the night vision and he lies flat against the support beams so he isn’t spotted through the gaps in the seating.

He keeps one eye on the mercenary as he edges towards the exit. His heart is pulsing in his throat and he runs through options as fast as he can.

There is a motion seen through the open flap of the tent; someone was approaching.

Bruce’s breath sticks in his throat with fear. He doesn’t know what would happen if someone else runs into the mercenary; the best case scenario was they got taken hostage instead of him. The worst was the mercenary gunning down them and anyone else who tried to interfere until either a hero or the police managed to take them down. He would literally die before he would let that happen.

Moving quickly but silently Bruce drops into view of the approaching person while remaining sheltered from the searching mercenary’s line of sight. He quickly and urgently makes the sign for ‘quiet’ and begs with his eyes as much as he can for them not to ask questions.

Eli frowns but recognizes the sign from their games of hide and tag.

[Not playing] he signs back.

[Game over] Bruce signs as urgently as he can and regrets that there aren’t signs for this situation. He patches together signs the best he can. [Inside Danger Maximum] He repeats the gesture for maximum a few times to try and get it across.

[Danger?] Eli asks with a frown.

[Not-player Danger] Bruce signs then adds the sign that designates a timeframe. [Future Hurt Danger] Their hide and seek game had no word for armed so he makes a substitution. [Angry not-player] Bruce makes a sign of a finger gun and mimes being shot.

Eli's eyebrows shoot up as he realizes Bruce is trying to tell him there’s a man with a gun inside the tent.

[Get help?!] He signs back frantically, pressing his lips firmly together so he doesn’t give anything away. [Tell adult?!]

[Tell adult maximum danger inside] Bruce signs again and this time briefly mimes someone walking into the tent and getting shot. [Do not get help.] Bruce wasn’t going to have the circus try to stop him and get hurt because of it.

[You get caught] Eli signs with fear in his eyes and that is what Bruce is afraid of.

[Acceptable loss] Bruce signs back, keeping his gaze and hands steady but Eli isn’t having it.

[Not acceptable loss] he signs firmly and Bruce notices the mercenary has given up the hunt for Bruce for easier prey and is now heading for the tent entrance. Eli has just seconds before he gets caught.

Bruce makes a snap decision, his body moves before his mind can process what is happening and he leaps from behind the bleachers to land firmly on the mercenary’s back.

They snarl and stumble forward as Bruce covers the one eyehole with one hand and attempts to throttle them with the other.

The single shot they fire off goes wide and nicks one of the tent poles. The sound of even a silenced shot echoes in the small space and people outside start to take notice.

“Damn it kid!” The masked mercenary snarls as he reaches over his shoulder for Bruce.

Bruce clings on as tightly as he can, expecting at any second to be thrown to the ground and a bullet put through his skull. The mercenary twists to try and shake him off and just holding on is hard enough. In a brief flash he sees Eli hasn’t run, he’s still standing in the entranceway with one of his father the fire-eater's bottles of lighter formula in his hands. The dirty scrap of rag used to clean up the spilled fluid is stuffed in the neck and he is touching a lighter to it. Bruce lets go at the same time Eli ducks into the tent and throws his homemade Molotov Cocktail at the mercenary’s chest.

The bottle cracks and a ball of flame billows outwards. Bruce is protected from the splash by the mercenary’s body but the still burning fluid sticks to his chest and mask. He must have still had his night vision on because the masked man staggers and claws at his face.

Bruce sees Eli turn and starts to run, zigzagging irregularly to make him hard to hit. Bruce himself leaps back to the bleachers then uses them as a stepping stone to push up onto a support beam and scramble up to the trapezes.

The mercenary is swearing, his gun still tightly grasped in his hand and Bruce is afraid that no matter what happens next the police won’t arrive fast enough to prevent someone getting hurt.

There is noise outside now as Eli has found someone willing to believe him and the rest of the circus is being alerted. It can’t be long before the mercenary gets sick of this and decides to shoot his way out.

Bruce moves over the web of ropes like a spider as he searches for a tool. He needs something he can use to stop him, or at least slow him down. Every second the mercenary is caught up with him is a second that he isn’t hurting someone else.

Bruce’s breath catches in his throat as he sees several dark shapes creep in through the slits in the tent’s roof.

[Disengage!] He signs as desperately as possible.

[Unacceptable loss] One signs back and in the sunlight that shows through the stitching Bruce can see it is Eli, with two new bottles of fuel at his side.

[Danger maximum!] Bruce signs again.

[Isolate last] Sinclair signs to him, his grim expression making it very clear that they understand the danger and they’re doing this anyway. [Establishing perimeter]

[Taking point] Zenya signs and the older girl is keeping a close watch on the mercenary. Her knives gleam at her sides and Bruce is reassured by how sharp he knows them to be.

[A secure] Davey signs from across the ropes.

They all move quietly and the mercenary has been too stunned by the sudden burst of fire to think to look up. For now they have the advantage of surprise.

[B secure] Eli signs.

[C secure] Sinclair adds and, despite the little voice in Bruce’s head that is screaming this is a bad idea he knows that is expected of him.

He shifts across the ropes as silently as a shadow.

[D secure] he signs.

[Point confirms, initiate] Zenya confirms with a few sharp hand gestures and Eli dumps both bottles of fuel and lights them as they empty.

Whatever was in the bottle was longer lasting and stronger than what he had been carrying before and a ring of flame springs up around the masked mercenary. At the same time Zenya throws a blade at the large wooden sign, severing one of its support ropes and causing it to swing down like an ax blade towards the mercenary. He manages to catch it with a grunt but at the same time both Bruce and Sinclair have dropped the sandbags from their side and they collide with a solid thud. The mercenary turns towards them and fires but a man surrounded by fire looking up into the shadows of the tent is doing so with their night vision in tatters and he is firing blind. The shot perforates the fabric nowhere near them.

Bruce and Zenya swing down the lead ropes like a pair of pirates and take shelter behind the box of props as Davey and Sinclair set up more aerial attacks to limit the mercenary’s motions and Eli moves back so he can’t be targeted.

Bruce knows the pattern off by heart, they practised these manoeuvres with all the seriousness of a military drill, most of them didn’t have names in anything but hand-sign. The task of hunting down and isolating the last untagged person was harder than it looked and naturally the circus kids made use of their environment to help. Of course it hadn’t been directed to harming someone but Bruce feels a dark satisfaction that the battle plans he had drafted are of use.

Bruce takes shelter behind the bleachers where he can keep an eye on their target.

“For an assassin he isn’t very good.” Bruce points out as he catches his breath.

“Naw, we’re just better.” Zenya says with a bright smile. Three throwing knives appear in her hands. “And _he_ is about to lose an eye.”

She hands him his own throwing tools. Bruce grins and takes the bird shaped blades from her.

He takes careful aim with one and throws. The blade whispers through the air but misses its target and the mercenary raises his gun towards them, only for the blade to impact his wrist on the return. The gun drops.

Bruce grabs another seven of the blades and sends them flying, each in a different curved trajectory. They circle him in the air, spiralling inwards like a flock of maddened birds and forcing the masked man to defend himself.

Zenya takes the opening to toss her blades. They slip through the openings in the spiralling net of blades without touching them and strike true. The mercenary reels backwards with the blades sticking from his armor. The bullet-proofing wasn’t all over, he had to leave areas for mobility and the blades found them. Even if they didn’t pierce all the way they would have bruised and they are limiting mobility by restricting the joints.

The mercenary cuts the circling blades out of the way with what looks like a sword but they’re forcing him on the defensive and not giving him the time to draw his guns against them. The circus kids are constantly shifting their positions to make them harder to target. More sandbags drop and as the mercenary slices into them clouds of choking dust that interfere with his vision.

Zenya throws another blade in a spiral as the mercenary raises his sword. The handle hits his upraised hand, knocking the blade out of it and lodging it in the ground outside of the circle of fire. At the same time Davey and Sinclair leap from above, looping ropes around the mercenary’s wrists as they do and pulling his hands out to the sides and away from his weapons. They stand braced to either side, holding the ropes slightly down due to the difference in size.

Eli leaps as well and his rope catches the mercenary around the middle, pulling him backwards against one of the large wooden supports with a crack.

Zenya and Bruce move in as the mercenary reels. He tries to pull Davey and Sinclair in but Eli loops another length of rope around his neck and pulls tight. Bruce breathes a faint sigh of relief as Zenya moves in to secure him.

Davey and Sinclair secure the masked mercenary’s arm restraints to the thick metal tent pegs that held the main tent upright. Eli secures the middle rope while Zenya secures the neck rope with the most diabolical knots they both can devise.

Bruce however, edges closer. He knows he is being reckless but he is curious about this mercenary with his swords and his guns that was hunting a hero here in the circus. Bruce pull off the bisected mask and underneath it is an entirely human face.

“Looks like someone beat you to it Zenya.” Bruce says and he is right.

One side of the man’s face has a few little scars but it normal but on the other, on the mask’s dark side, his eye is a gnarled mess of scarred tissue with a milk white glass orb as a sightless prosthetic. His hair is starting to gray.

The mercenary grins wolfishly.

“I see why they’re interested now.” He says and something about those words sends a chill down Bruce’s spine. “What a well-trained little flock you make. I might even ask for one of you to help train my boy.” He adds.

Zenya says something decidedly unfriendly in what sounds to Bruce like some dialect of Greek.

“Themysciran.” The mercenary scowls.

“Half.” Zenya snaps and pulls the rope tight. “I visit Ma for the summer.”

The mercenary grunts in pain as the rope starts to cut off circulation.

“Don’t go anywhere now.” Zenya says and her voice is half mocking, half threatening. “I’m going to get the police.”

She leaves, trusting the rest of the children to keep a close watch on their target. Davey gathers up the discarded weapons, handing Bruce back his blades and giving the sword to Sinclair to examine.

Bruce sits perched on the edge of the bleachers and keeps his eyes on target like a hawk. He holds one of the remaining blades closely, ready to throw it at the slightest sign of trouble.

“Going to rabbit again boy?” The mercenary asks him. He reminds Bruce a little of an older, more twisted version of Jason.

Bruce shakes his head and tightens his grip on the blade. The mercenary rotates a shoulder.

“Stay where you are!” Bruce shouts out a warning and raises the blade to throw.

The mercenary stops moving but seems more amused than afraid.

“Just getting comfortable.” He says.

“I’m an escape artist.” Bruce says scathingly. “And I’ll stick you if you try and escape.”

“You’d stab a bound prisoner?” The mercenary asks back and arches one eyebrow. He only has the one, the bloom of scar tissue around his missing eye has completely removed the other eyebrow.

“For trying to escape? Yes.” Bruce says bluntly, his dark eyes focused like a hawk on the prisoner. “I can make it look like an accident.” He adds.

The mercenary laughs.

“I like you boy, what’s your name?” He asks. Silence from Bruce. “I’m Grant, Grant Wilson.” The mercenary adds and gives him an expectant look with his remaining eye.

“Bruce Grayson.” Bruce says quietly, feeling like he shouldn’t but unable to help himself. The buzz hasn’t quite faded and its making him reckless.

“The owner’s son then.” Grant says and Bruce doesn’t like the way he says son.

He leans back against the post he is lashed to and Bruce allows it this time. A smile that is both smug and sinister passes over mercenary’s scarred and grizzled face. A shiver of fear runs down Bruce’s spine.

“There’s something you don’t know about this place, Bruce, and it’s going to get you killed one day.” Grant says. “Your father is lying to you.”

He then leans back and smiles a smile that gets less and less friendly with every passing a second, refusing to say more or explain what he’s talking about.

No matter how many times Bruce tells himself the mercenary is lying to mess with his head, the words stick with him. There was something he didn’t know about the circus, something that was going to get him killed and Dick was lying to him…

As much as he wants to dismiss the mercenary’s words as a petty payback for beating him he can’t get the words out of his head. He wants them to be lies, wants to believe there’s no truth to them and he can dismiss them as just the bitter words of a caught criminal. Bruce wishes he was the kind of person that could just trust Dick unconditionally, but the seed of doubt has started to put out roots.

Something he didn’t know, Dick was lying to him….

Something he didn’t know, Dick was lying to him….

Bruce grits his teeth. The mercenary had been taken away, he didn’t have to fear him anymore but the words are still ringing in his ears. They are ringing with truth and it is becoming deafening.

There were few things Bruce hated more utterly than the feeling he was losing control. When he wasn’t in control he couldn’t protect the people he cared about, and when he didn’t have all the information he couldn’t make the right choices to keep them safe. Dick was one of the people he cared about the most but the mercenary was right. There was something Dick wasn’t telling him. Something to do with the circus and birds.

Bruce made up his mind to confront Dick about it and not give up until he got some real answers. His determination doesn’t waver even as the police arrive and Grant Wilson is forced into the back of a police van.

Dick arrives barely a minute behind them. As soon as he spots Bruce he drops his conversation to literally run to him and pull him into a tight hug. Bruce’s breath leaves his lungs with a soft ‘whump’. Dick’s hands dart over him, from the knife slits in his t-shirts to the small cut on his temples before he lets go and crouches to be at Bruce’s eye level.

“Bruce, what happened?!” He asks with panic in his eyes. “The police say you fought off _Ravager!_ ”

Ravager. Bruce files the name away for later.

“He said his name was Grant Wilson.” He supplies.

“That’s not important right now!” He says and Bruce idly wonders why a supervillain’s given name isn’t important information. “What was someone like Ravager doing here?” He asks.

“He wanted a hostage.” Bruce tells him and, while Dick sounds like he’s about to cry Bruce is surprised how calm his voice sounds. “He said he was hunting a hero, a hero he could lure in with a child from the circus he watches over. What hero is that I wonder?” He asks, and his voice sounds merely curious.

“Bruce, stop talking.” Dick orders softly and Bruce is prepared to insist, even if it led to a fight, when Dick wraps his arms tightly around Bruce again.

“I’m sorry Bruce, I’m so sorry.” Dick says and he sounds on the brink of crying.

 _You’ve been lying to me_ , Bruce thinks but the words stick in his throat before he can say them.

“This is all my fault.” Dick sobs. “I should have never let this happen to you!”

The moment to confront him is passing, Bruce’s resolve fading as Dick presses Bruce close to his chest. The urge to hug Dick back and comfort him was getting too strong.

“I swear I will never let you get into danger again.” Dick promises as he holds Bruce close and Bruce’s resolve breaks. He swallows the bitter words that he knows are going to cause only strife and hugs Dick back.

Dick strokes his hair and Bruce feels tears pricking the corners of his eyes. Dick was so worried for him…

“You must have been so scared.” Dick says.

Dick is wrong. Bruce doesn’t know how to tell him.

He should have been scared.

He enjoyed it.


	10. Central City

In its own way it all became as simple as a nursery rhyme.

The clock ticks and the pick clicks in the lock.

Tick, tock, pick in lock and with a click the lock pops and he drops from the box.

The clock stops.

Bruce falls and the chains hiss as they fall around him in a spiral. As he lands on his feet the chains curl at his feet like a nest of snakes. He straightens up, thrusts one fist into the air and basks in the cheers of the crowd.

Any other time Bruce would hate the pressure of so many eyes on him, judging him, but when he performed it was his element. He draws his purple cape around the red and yellow suit and flares it like spread wings as he soaks in the cheers.

He’s done it.

Not the escape, that was all muscle memory at this point. He can and has done it blindfolded. Dick joked that if he puts a lock and a pick in Bruce’s hands while he slept he would do it in his sleep. The thrill he felt facing the crowd wasn’t the thrill of escaping a situation where escape felt impossible, it was the thrill of lying and getting away with it.

The Locked Box escape was something that came so naturally to him it was hard to believe he had ever had to learn it, rather than it being as inherent as his knowledge of standing up right and breathing. Bruce even did it to relax sometime when he needed something for his body to do while his mind was working on a problem. The thrill was that he had made a skill he had practiced so long his body could do it by itself into something people _cheered_ for.

Once he was up there he wasn’t Bruce Wayne the Gotham Orphan or even Bruce Grayson the Owner’s Son, he was Brightwing the Escape Artist, the Bird who couldn’t be Caged!

Bruce never stepped on the stage as himself; he hid himself behind a mask and created a character to hide behind. They were the one up there on the stage, not him. There seemed to be something inherently dishonest about this to Bruce, remembering all the times he was told not to lie for attention, but that was showbiz, kid. It didn’t have to be real, it just had to be believable, no, more than that it had to be _entertaining._

He politely bows to one side of the stage then the other and smiles widely as his gear is wheeled off, stalling for time while they cleaned up after his escape.

Bruce could have made the escape in half the time if he wanted to, but that was the difference showbiz made. If he had escaped as fast as he could it wouldn’t have been a good act. There was an audience appeal to the struggle; he kept spare picks just so he could drop one during his performance and hear the audience gasp. You had to play their reactions like an angler plays a hooked fish, giving them slack or drawing them in until you landed it.

Dick said that a good performance was one that inspired an emotion in the audience, any emotion. Bruce had chosen fear; the fear that something could go terribly wrong, the creeping dread anticipation of it, and the sudden rush of relief when, with seemingly no time to spare, he breaks free unharmed while seemingly only moments from disaster.

It was all an act of course, but it was an act he worked hard on. He loved the thrill of crafting the perfect lie. He had shaped the character of his stage persona to perfection, like honing a blade. It became a mask he could slip on under his skin when he was needed to be more than just Bruce, he had to represent the circus. His stage persona was a patchwork mix of the other performers, trying to mimic what made them personable like a child mimicking the walk of their parent, with a dash of his own Gotham darkness he couldn’t seem to shake. It was a mask that was all his own.

Bruce left the stage with a smile still on his face. It had taken practice to get it looking natural, he wasn’t really a smiling type, but he had managed it in the end.  Until the audience was gone and they packed up he was still called on to be a performer of the circus. That meant being approachable, even friendly, if he had to be. It was exhausting to keep it up for too long but Bruce’s tolerance was building up. The mask protected him from the worst of other people.

The mask had many uses; he had been introduced to the circus technique of manipulating others by appearing less intelligent than you really were and found it useful. He had learned how a smile could open doors, how you could go anywhere and talk to anyone if you moved with enough confidence, how to show with a handshake that you were taking charge or putting someone at ease, how with an arm around the shoulder you claimed someone as your kith or kept them from running.

Bruce smiles as he takes a cloth and cleans the sweat of the escape from his neck. With only a sheer length of cloth between him and the audience he relaxes. He starts humming a tune under his breath as he cleans and packs away his equipment and checks the map showing their tour route.

“I mark my town, with a little drop of poison.” Bruce hums under his breath as he marks how many more stops on the tour map there are before Gotham.

On the battered and faded travel map attached to the notice board were pins in each city they visited, colored for how dangerous the show had to be to satisfy. The most dangerous cities were marked with red pins, all except for Gotham. The pin for Gotham was pitch black. Gotham was its own category of dangerous, but if you could make it there, you could make it anywhere.

He takes a swig from his bottle of ice-water to cool down.

“Swinge’d ‘em.” Sinclair says as he walks past with his blades. He slaps the back of Bruce’s hand with the back of his own in a circus hi-five. “Got an oldblood chain spesch in the stakes wants a jab with ya, Spook.”

Bruce frowns. What was a retired escape artist doing in the audience, let alone in the cheap seats?

“You think ‘e’s a grow or a gaze?” He asks, wondering if they’re here for the show or are a plant looking to steal a routine for a rival circus.

Sinclair rolls his eyes.

“Ya cynna, someways an oldbloods just keeper peeper onna newbloods.” Sinclair calls him a cynic for assuming an ulterior motive, saying it’s more likely that an old escape artist just wants to see what a new escape artist can do.

He grins.

“But you ain’t gonna takka lucre and ghost, ya hear?” He adds, jokingly ordering Bruce not to sell his act and move to another circus.

“Not for an ass’s full.” Bruce says, confirming he wouldn’t sell his services for the hide of a donkey filled with gold, a phrase whose origins he hasn’t found out yet but sounds folkloric.

He flexes.

“But if ‘e starts barking I’mma bounce him, oldblood or none.” He says half seriously, saying that if the older escapologist gets disruptive he is going to kick them out, possibly with a fight.

Sinclair rolls his eyes and huffs theatrically.

“Don’t kiwi the cas.” He warns Bruce not to tarnish the reputation of their circus home, where they will inevitable have to work at. “Some’a us gotta waith ‘ere.”

“Yah, yah, yah blatherin’ Sin.” Bruce waves a hand dismissively, accusing him for talking too much and tosses his towel at him. “Stop ya gob with this before ya sink, ya babblewit.” He orders Sinclair to shove the towel in his mouth before his brains dribble out his ears and gives a jaunty wave as he leaves the tent.

Immediately Bruce slips into detective mode, keeping his cheerful smile up as a defensive barrier.

His act was the closer of the first half, meaning the main tent is hemorrhaging audience members as they leave for food and drinks during the intermission. Walking the midway at this time was part of his duties as a performer, and as Bruce heads towards the tent like a fish moving upstream he takes care to keep kind and cheerful when audience members want to talk to him. It slows him down but he can’t begrudge them; they were here for magic after all. Bruce is as cheerful as he can be and answers all the questions asked to him by excited looking kids, even though it still hurts his heart seeing all the happy families enjoying their night out. He can’t begrudge a kid their happiness, even when it reminds him too much of his own pain.

It is during a story he is telling to entertain a bouncing-with-excitement child while their exhausted looking parent takes a break that he feels the prickle of watching eyes. Without breaking in telling his story he looks around him and identifies the figure that doesn’t belong. From the way they stand, watching with a faint smile, they’re a former performer. Sin’s oldblood.

He waits until the audience is returning to the tent for the rest of the show before he wanders over. Bruce gives him a brief nod of acknowledgement. The former performer returns the nod and takes his hands from his pocket. He offers one to shake. When Bruce takes it a cuff closes around his wrist.

They both laugh at the old escape artist’s joke and relax against the bales that hold up the now mostly empty popcorn maker.

The oldblood fishes a handful of the cold, burnt, uncooked popcorn kernels covered in a sludge of congealed butter grease and salt from the bottom of the machine and chews on them.

Bruce makes a face.

He’s cleaned out the machines before and reckons the sludge left over after they made the popcorn is one of the foulest things known to man (and he’s eaten his own cooking on the nights no-one else would). It could put you off popcorn for life.

“Reminds me of a delicacy we had back home.” The oldblood sighs and licks a crust of burned butter tar and salt crystals from their fingers. Bruce mentally makes a note never to visit their circus if that’s the standard their food is at.

“So you’re the chain spesch ya?” Bruce asks him and hands him his cuffs back.

“Scott Free.” The escapologist introduces himself.

Bruce swallows.

“You razzing me?” He asks seriously.

Scott raises one hand.

“I swear on gods, both old and new, that what I say is true.” He vows.

“Wow.” Bruce says honestly. “The real Mister Miracle himself, didn’t recognize ya without the ecaf, how did Dick get you _here_?”

“We’re both circus folk, more of us are than you’d think.” Scott deflects.

Bruce isn’t buying it. His icy blue eyes bore into the escape artist.

“A retired hero must have more security than witness protection, how did an acrobat get in contact with you?” He asks curiously.

“I’ve got a kid of my own, I’ve been retired from the hero business for a while.” Scott says.

Bruce waves a hand vaguely to imply that all that Justice League stuff is secondary to being probably the _universe’s_ best escape artist.

“You are my idol.” He says with grim seriousness. Scott actually winces as the depths of devotion in his eyes.

“Yeah, well, you should never meet your heroes.” He says vaguely. “You got the basics down but I was doing that escape since before I could spit. What can you actually do?”

Bruce’s eyes gleam.

“I can do the Seven Chains escape, and the Coffin Drop, and the Drowned Man...” He lists off.

Scott interrupts him by shaking his head.

“Not acts kid, what can you _do_?” He asks.

“Free-form? A lot more than you saw out there.” Bruce flexes. “What do you want to see?”

“Your best.” Scott is blunt. “Word on the street is you got snatched up by Ravager a few moons back.”

Bruce frowns.

“Yeah.” He says, not making the connection.

“How's your Hostage escape?” Scott asks him.

“…Could use a little practice.” Bruce says frankly and smiles an uncertain smile. He looks like a robot simulating human emotions for the first time.

Scott sighs.

“Chances are you’re going to get it.” He says.

Bruce’s eyes widen.

“Are we in danger?” He asks.

Scott drums his fingers on the bales.

“Yeah.” He says honestly. “Look, you seem like a nice enough kid, so I’m going to give it to you straight.” He says and wipes his popcorn greased hands on the bales. “I bet you’re thinking you’ve got away with it but people that shouldn’t be looking at ya are now you humiliated Ravager. There might be more trouble. He wasn’t popular enough for anyone to be gunning for you for revenge, you understand, but nobody likes being made to look stupid.” He says then mutters under his breath so Bruce barely hears it. “Though Nobody doesn’t like it much either.”

“Is he going to come back?” Bruce asks.

“He’s locked up tight for now, but other criminals might try something just to see what you’re made of.” Scott rests a hand on his shoulder. “Thought you could use a heads up.” He mutters.

“So what do we do?” Bruce asks him.

“Stay out of trouble, don’t draw attention to yourself and it’ll blow over eventually.” Scott tells him. He clears his throat. “On the behalf of the Justice League I am officially asking you not to make trouble.”

“You mean Dick’s worried I’m going to go looking for trouble.” Bruce frowns and Scott manages to at least look apologetic.

“Well your da’s always been a broody hen.” Scott says. The escape artist sighs and smooths his hair back. “But he’s just trying to keep you safe.”

“So you got asked to deliver a message?” He says.

“Yup.” Scott looks embarrassed. “They figured you’d at least listen to me.”

Bruce takes a deep breath and decides that if there’s any time to ask about things, this is it.

“Ravager…said some things.” Bruce says carefully, wondering what information he can get from Mister Miracle. “About…heroes.”

“What…things?” Scott says equally carefully, trying not to sound too invested in what could be a potential security breach in case it leads to blackmail.

“He said…that there was a hero that watches the circus.” Bruce says. “And that…they care about kids.” He chickens out before he can ask exactly what Ravager meant about him being lied to. He’s afraid if he mentions it he is only going to get more lies.

“A lot of heroes care about kids Bruce.” Scott sighs. “Who doesn’t care about kids?” He looks at the sky for a moment. “A few of the more ruthless types with no self-respect and nothing to lose take child hostages because they know it upsets us.” He says. “The professionals look down on it, they say it makes the game unfair.”

“Ravager was specifically targeting the circus.” Bruce says insistently. The mercenary was after them specifically, what about Haly’s made it of interest to a supervillain?

Scott rubs the back of his neck.

“Look kid, the less you know the safer you are.” He says. “Yeah, you’ve got someone looking out for you but he’s not going to be able to protect you from everything. That’s all you need to know, alright?”

Bruce folds his arms, rolls his eyes and snorts to show it really wasn’t but he’s going to put up with it because he doesn’t have a choice.

“Kids…” Scott mutters under his breath.

“Have you talked with any of the other circus kids about this?” Bruce asks.

“You ask too many questions.” Scott tells him.

“If I’m in danger it is in my nature to want to know the nature of the threat so I can properly defend myself against it.” Bruce says quietly. “Especially if the threat is to my family as well.”

“That’s why I’m supposed to talk to you.” Scott tells him. “Your da asked me to teach you a very important life lesson I learned over my many years in the Justice League.”

“What’s that?” Bruce asks, paying close attention to him.

“Sometimes you gotta to cheese it.” Scott says bluntly. “No lie, knowing how to cut your losses and run is the most important skill in life.”

 “I’d be safer if I knew why I was in danger.” Bruce tells him.

“Right now you’re in danger because you fought off Ravager.” Scott points out. “My colleagues don’t want you making a habit of it. The League disapproves of vigilante justice.”

“Then make me a member.” Bruce says semi-seriously.

“Maybe later.” Scott waves the statement away and misses the spark of hunger that shines in Bruce’s eyes. “I want you to show me what you got when you’re not putting on a show sometime. Get started on some REAL escapes.” Scott says. “In some ways you being a performer makes things easier; you already know what not to do, right?”

“I guess?” Bruce frowns.

“Good.” Scott says. “’Cause it isn’t going to be easy.”

“This an audition?” Bruce asks eagerly.

“Kinda?” Scott sounds doubtful. “It’s supposed to be more of a preventative thing. Dick said you’re already a little ringleader, you can teach the others what to do, yeah?” Scott says.

“Sure can.” Bruce says emphatically.

Scott sighs again and seems to be making up his mind about something. He looks at the sky, already starting to cloud over with the thick grey-white cloud that promised rain in the future.

“I shouldn’t be doing this…” He mutters to himself. “I’m not good with kids…”

He breathes out another sigh and stands.

“Mother Box, open a tube home.”

There is a sound like a boom of thunder.

The air seems to bend and hum in front of them, funneling back somehow into a distortion like a hole has been punched into the fabric of reality, leading _behind_ the universe through some other plane.

Bruce sticks his hand into the spatial distortion. It tugs at his fingers like a strong wind and the tips of his fingernails seems to stream off into the distortion like grains of sand down a plughole. He pulls his hand back. His fingernails are intact. It must be an optical illusion due to the bending of light.

“It’s called a Boom Tube.” Scott says.

“I know.” Bruce says smugly. “I see the news reports.”

Scott clicks his tongue and shakes his head.

“Whatever, just remember to stay out of trouble.” He says and waves two fingers in a circus goodbye. “Stay safe.”

“…Stay safe.” Bruce repeats.

The hole in the universe flares then zips shut along some unknown axis, leaving only the flare of remembered light on his retinas to show it had been there. Bruce waves a hand through the space to see if there is any linger trace but touches only empty air. He sits on the bales and thinks.

This is…something.

Things like this didn’t just _happen_ to people. You didn’t end up fighting off a masked mercenary one month and getting a personal warning from the Justice League the next.

Bruce can’t describe the discomfort he is feeling; it’s like an itch on the brain. The taste of the air on his tongue is souring like the air before a storm, and it makes him think of gun smoke and alleyways.

Ravager’s words are clanking in his head as loudly as a fire alarm. He has just enough pieces of the puzzle to know there _is_ a puzzle, but not enough to put them together. Something was _wrong_ about this and not knowing is causing him literal, physical pain. The wrongness of the situation was a sour note in a symphony, an equation that doesn’t add up, a wound in the world, and that was a _crime._

His teeth are grinding until his jaw aches and his ears strain until they ring; he knows that there is danger _somewhere_ but not what it is and how to deal with it. A darkness falls over him like some great storm cloud. His hands are clenched into fists so tight his hands are shaking. Bruce forces them to uncurl and his knuckles crack. He can’t take it anymore; he can’t _pretend_ that things aren’t wrong anymore. He feels like he is going to snap in half, or start growing spines, or bite through his tongue.

Bruce forces himself to stand and snaps his head up to look at the sky. The sky is thick with clouds like white cotton candy through which the sun is a shining light piercing the gloom. He breathes out and forces himself to calm.

He can’t let the wrongness of not knowing overwhelm him. He has to be like the sun, a light that pierces the clouds, a beacon of truth in the darkness.

This is a mystery and there was one person Bruce could rely on to want a mystery solved. He calls Tim. Behind him the show goes on, as it must.

“Detective Drake, what’s your problem?” Tim picks up on the third ring and Bruce’s mouth feels filled with cotton as he realizes he hasn’t planned what to say. He bluffs.

“I know…” He starts to say and hears a harsh metallic sigh through the speaker.

“I’m sorry little detective, I should have told you as soon as I found out. I told him, I told him the Truth will Out but Dick didn’t think it was a good idea…”

“I’ve been hearing that a lot.” Bruce says bitterly.

“He thought if you knew we’d found Joe Chill…” The rest of Tim’s words are lost in a haze of white noise.

A chill sweeps over Bruce as his anger becomes something so powerful, so overwhelming it sweeps him back into a kind of serenity. The sun is shining through the clouds, birds are singing in the trees, in the tent behind him he hears the audience applaud and he is completely at peace.

“Where is he Tim?” He asks without a tremble of anger, without the faintest trace of hatred in his voice.

“He’s under close observation. He won’t be able to hurt anyone else Bruce.” Tim’s voice over the phone reassures him.

“Tell me where he is.” Bruce insists and it surprises even him at how calm his voice is. “I need to know.”

“We don’t have enough evidence for an arrest yet, we’re still building the case…” Tim makes excuses.

“I am not planning on arresting him.” Bruce feels his mouth shape the words on its own. “I am going to kill him.”

“Bruce, I know how you feel, but we have a strong case, you just have to be patient for a little longer…” Tim tries to placate him. "The Truth will Out."

“I am done being patient.” Bruce hangs up the phone over Tim’s protests. He hurls it to the ground. It shatters into a pile of plastic and sparking metal. “I’m done with waiting.” He mutters to himself.

The warning words of Scott Free sound in his head but his anger has grown to the point where he doesn’t care anymore. He leans back against the hay bale and breathes out a sigh as he looks at the shattered mess of the phone. Despite the violence with which he’d broken it he still feels that eerie calm of absolute rage.

He hadn’t thought about Joe Chill in a long time, except in the instinctual flinch of pain of involuntary memory. He had almost forgotten that staying in the Circus was supposed to be a temporary thing until he could get his revenge. Now…Now he doesn’t know. His family, the people he thought he could _trust_ were lying to him, to protect him, to keep him from his revenge. The Justice League, the heroes that were supposed to protect them, were lying to him about the danger he faced. There was no-one he could trust but himself.

A cold shudder runs over Bruce’s body, a wave of violent nausea that seeps so deep he can’t even retch. He wants to crawl out of his own skin and hide away from everything. He wonders if this is how a caterpillar feels when it is becoming a butterfly. It’s like the past years have been a dream, and these strange things that felt wrong was his brain trying to bring him back to _reality._ He looks up at the clouds as if he was only now seeing them for the first time. He feels his disordered thoughts being dragged around a new center, as if this new fact was the central piece of the puzzle.

They’d found Joe Chill. They’d _found_ him.

For the longest time it seemed like the murderer had faded away like a shadow in the Gotham night, existing only in that moment of muzzle flash in the dark. Bruce had stopped following the investigation for his own good; the facts were too few and no matter how he turned them over in his head the lack of progress stung. In a small way he’d given up to focus on the everyday things he _could_ effect. Now he feels a truly sickening mixture of guilt and excitement.

He knew what he had to do. It was time to take justice into his own hands. Now the excitement is stronger than the guilt, strong enough that he was nearly shaking with it and he could taste remembered blood on his tongue. He would kill Joe Chill if it meant his own death. If the Justice League got in his way, he would remove them.

It should feel like an enormous weight on his shoulders; he was going down a path that potentially involved fighting _Superman_ , that was a massive hurdle for anyone, but it doesn’t. He feels completely calm. He had been…lost, the world had been wrong, but now he has a direction. His family was lying to him, to keep him safe, to keep a _murderer_ safe from him. The heroes who were supposed to be protecting them were lying to him, to protect him from something they wouldn’t tell him about. There was no-one he could trust but himself.

Against orders he leaves the circus alone, without telling anyone where he is going. He merely throws another performer’s black coat over his costume and wills himself into invisibility.

It’s as easy as flicking a switch. He passes under the sign at the circus’s entrance and just like that he wasn’t Brightwing the Bird who couldn’t be Caged, he wasn’t even Bruce Grayson. For the first time since the alleyway he was Bruce Wayne and only Bruce Wayne, but this time he was no longer a crying child paralyzed by fear.

Now he had a purpose.

It pulled him forwards like a magnetic north as he walks into the streets of Central City. His knowledge of the streets fades as he walks further away from the circus than he ever has on his own and into unfamiliar territory. There is a taste of tin in the back of his mouth, like the smell of snow.

No, it wasn’t just him. There was a chill on the air that didn’t match the season. Bruce remembers what city he was in and his eyes narrow. He draws in a deep breath. Yeah, that was definitely an unnatural cold snap, which meant the Rogues.

The Rogues were a statistical abnormality as villains; they cared about their reputation, if only because it made it easier to go on a crime spree unhindered by civilians. Some thought that made them weak, they thought it made them smart, the truth was somewhere in the middle. A good citizen would turn around and walk the other way, it wasn’t like he has heading somewhere in particular and _had_ to walk this way, he was just walking _away_ from the people who were lying to him.

Bruce keeps going and the cold grows more pronounced until there is frost glittering on the pavement and coating the road with black ice. He touches a patch of it and it crumbles to nothing. It wasn’t _quite_ frost; the Cold Gun didn’t use ice as a projectile, it stole the energy from the air itself and turned the atmosphere solid. That was chilling in a different way. It definitely counted as trouble, the kind of trouble he was told to avoid.

The bitter mote of an idea is swirling in his head, his mind feels like a knife edge; sharp, shining and focused towards a single purpose. He has to get stronger, he sees that now, and if he is going to be strong enough to defeat the thing the Justice League couldn’t tell him about he can’t go running home now. He isn’t a child who will run home and hide under the blankets until the scary monsters go away.

Bruce finds he is starting to smile as he calls on everything he has learned in the circus to blend further in. Maybe he would do something, maybe he wouldn’t, but he needed to get a firsthand look at exactly what he was dealing with. He had to get revenge his own way.

He goes for higher ground; the first lesson he’d learned in stealth was that ever since humans evolved enough that birds weren’t a threat nobody looked up.

Bruce slips across the rooftops as he traces the unnatural chill to its source; a city bank. The roads are slick with deadly ice to delay police cars and a cold wind blows as a small thundercloud hovers over the area. Small flares of lightning spark in its depths to discourage police helicopters. Aside from a powdery cover of snow the rooftops are clear. Bruce takes care not to leave footprints as he drops into an alleyway with a good view of the building.

Part of him wonders what he’s doing here; is he going to try and stop a robbery or is he hoping to somehow hire the Rogues to bring him Chill? No, Bruce decides, he’s here to prove to himself that he owns himself, he doesn’t have to do what he’s told to do. He breathes out, his breath curling in the cold air, and watches. Whatever action is going on inside the building itself shows no sign. Bruce leans against the wall and observes closely. If he had the Rogues abilities at his disposal, how would he do this?

His eyes flicker across the building, noting points of entry and the defenses on them. Several sensors have been iced over to stop the doors being barred. Alarms have been strategically interrupted. The streets themselves are covered in empty cars; customers of the bank who had left them behind as they fled or were still hostages inside. One truck stands out as if highlighted in his vision. There’s no ice on it. Bruce realizes it’s the getaway vehicle and he is moving towards it before he can think about it. The penknife seems to leap to his hand, the blade a sharp sliver of silver gleaming against the frost.

Bruce plunges into the tire. He pulls the blade across the rubber before darting forward to slash at the next one. His heart is beating in his throat but he feels the same thrill as he does during a performance; he’s perched on the razor edge of disaster with the tension thick in the air, he can almost _feel_ the crowd holding their breath. His blade plunges into the third tire and he is about to finish the job when he gets the feeling it would put him in danger. He darts for the shadows just in time to be out of sight as the Trickster leaves the building. If he had stopped to slash the last tire it would undoubtedly have turned into a pursuit. Instead he’s managed to get in cover just in time.

The Central City criminal is looking out for trouble but Bruce stays completely still and blends into the background. The dusty black coat makes him melt into the alleyway shadows, his arm blending into the shadows of a garbage bag. Seamlessly his silhouette becomes nothing more than a brief optical illusion, then not even that.

Trickster throws something into the back of the truck, leaps into the driver’s seat and guns it. The tires screech and the truck lists to one side as the gashes in the tires make themselves known. It skids on the ice.

A now familiar dart of golden light flares across his vision and the truck is engulfed in the tornado of crimson and gold that was the Flash. The effect of the light refracting from speed was one he knew well; it was the same thing that happened whenever Barry used his powers. He’d made a very _thorough_ comparison between the two; it was good to see his theories being validated. The truck bounces on its suspension as Trickster is picked up by the golden light and left tied to a lamppost. Bruce smiles to see he’s swearing in Circus Cant. Appropriate that someone who dressed like a circus clown was an ex-performer as well as an ex-con.

Bruce feels his anger at his own helplessness start to fade as he watches. This is what he was supposed to be protected from; now he’s here he knows what the threat is and how to stop it. He wasn’t helpless; he could act, he could _help._ Whatever dangers were out there for him he could face them and defeat them. It’s a liberating thought.

A shape leaps from the shadow, the dusty grey-black of tarmac with a deep blue pattern of feathering around the chest. A rough cape of panels of grey-blue ‘feather’ drapes across his shoulders. The white eyes of the owl-like mask shine from the mask of dark iron of the famed ghost of Gotham, the Birdman.

Bruce freezes against the brickwork, just another shadow among shadows, and watches with interest.

The ‘hero without a home’ as the papers called him may have started off in Gotham, but these days he simply seemed to show up where he was needed. The wandering hero was notoriously rare to see, something in their costume made it hard to photograph, but in person it was clear. Bruce is curious, the Rogues are more or less contained by the Flash, they objected _strongly_ to other heroes on their turf, and that limit was usually respected. What was it about this particular bank heist that made it a two-hero job?

Bruce wishes he had some way of recording this as he pays attention so intently it _hurts._

Gotham’s homegrown cryptid approaches the incapacitated rogue and crouches to look him in the eye. Bruce is too far away to hear exactly what is said but he lip-reads the best he can and makes out a few words; ‘Ravager’, ‘Attack’ and ‘Circus’. Bruce feels his heart beat in his throat.

Trickster’s reply is indistinct but definitely in the negative.

So this was the hero who was watching the Circus. It makes sense that the wandering hero would use Haly’s to hide, he might even be a performer, using the traveling show to cover his tracks. When there wasn’t trouble they could hide as part of the travelling show and only reappear when they were needed. Despite knowing this Bruce can’t help but feel a resentment towards the hero. The circus had been threatened because of him, his family was being put in danger because of him.

Bruce can’t quite put his finger on it but as the heroes enter the bank there is something about the way he moved that was familiar somehow, like it had been something he had seen before.

Another watcher laughs.

“You’ve got guts.” A faintly French voice says by his ear.

Bruce swings without looking and experiences the disturbing sight of his hand being caught in an invisible fist.

The stealth suit shimmers and fades into existence, four glowing red eyes set in the mask looking down at him.

“Morgan Ducard.” The suit introduces himself. “Black Spider.”

Bruce makes an attempt to knee him in the gut and Morgan grabs that as well.

“Easy kid, I’m not here to fight you.” He laughs and lets go. “I’m an info-broker.”

Bruce takes a combat ready stance just in case.

“How long have you been here? What did you see?” He asks.

Morgan leans against the wall casually.

“You’re the one who stepped into _my_ concealment field, little fly.” He laughs. “And the entire League couldn’t catch this spider on his web. You’re the one who beat Ravager, yes?” He asks.

With the stealth suit a nondescript dusty black instead of invisibly blending into the environment Bruce can get a better look at him. Morgan doesn’t look like he’s much older than Bruce is, lean and muscled like a gymnast rather than a brawler. He hadn’t made the news which either meant he was new and harmless or too good to get caught, Bruce knows it’s the later. No newbie got a suit like that and knew how to use it, not without one of the big players backing them.

The suit has four spindly mechanical arms at least as long as his own arching over his shoulders, each tipped with two hooked tarsal claws. Bruce can see the grips where each limb could easily support the whole body from a minimal attachment point. Black Spider, more like Fly on the Wall but that name isn’t quite as catchy.

“Ravager’s put a price on your head.” Morgan says.

“And what, you’re just a Good Samaritan looking out for me?” Bruce asks in a snarl, paying close attention to his surroundings. Just because one stealth-suited assassin had revealed himself doesn’t mean there weren’t more around.

Morgan laughs.

“And they say the heroes don’t have a sense of humor.” He flaps a hand dismissively and a limb on that side twitches. “Kidnapping a kid? No-one wants to try it.”

“I’m not a…” Bruce starts to say and is cut off.

“I know, but that’s how _they_ see it.” Behind the four red ‘eyes’ there’s a suggestion of a smile. “Want to prove them wrong?”

“What are you suggesting?” Bruce asks warily.

“Ravager doesn’t want you dead, or at least he doesn’t want to _hire_ someone else to do it for him, he wants to kill you himself in person. The contract is to, and I quote, ‘put the fear of God in you’ then let you go. Now as I understand it Grant isn’t very popular…”

“I heard.” Bruce snorts.

“I know.” Morgan’s tone is smug. “Information broker remember? Thing is, we supervillains don’t like it when one of our own is made to look stupid by a civilian, even if they’re way at the bottom of the social ladder. It encourages civilians to get involved and that doesn’t end up well for everyone else, you understand.”

Bruce nods. Morgan spreads his hands in an expressive gesture. The arms of the suit move with him and mirror the gesture.

“So here’s where we stand; I was hired to disrupt the Rogue’s crime spree subtly, but you went ahead and did that for me. That means I owe you a favor.” Morgan says. “Let me take a picture with you looking suitably contrite and get that contract cleared before someone truly nasty decides they want to torture a teenager.”

“And you walk away with the contract fee.” Bruce points out.

“I guess I do.” Morgan laughs. “Tell you what, I’ll give you a cut for your co-operation...”

“Keep it all.” Bruce replies. “I want to hire you.”

“You got guts Kid.” Morgan sounds impressed. “What can the Black Spider do for you? Some pretty girl you wish to spy on?”

“There’s someone I have to kill.” Bruce says bluntly, and it’s true.

Morgan laughs and Bruce tenses, ready to fight, ready to _prove_ himself. Morgan holds up a hand to let him know he’s not laughing _at_ him.

“I like you kid, so I’ll do you this favor.” He says and beckons him over. “Picture first.”

Still tensed in case this turns into a fight Bruce looks down at the ground, hunches his shoulders and lets Morgan wrap an arm around him. There’s no sign of a picture being taken but Bruce wouldn’t expect there to be one, not from a professional info-broker. Morgan releases him and nods approvingly.

“Now then, who’s the target?” he asks.

“I have to kill him myself.” Bruce immediately says.

“Info-broker remember?” Morgan seems to smile. “I _could_ put you in touch with an assassin, but something tells me you want to get your hands dirty on this one.”

Bruce nods grimly.

“His name is Joe Chill.” He says. “I need to find him but…I’m under observation and he’s under protection. I need a way to…disappear.”

“You ask a lot from me.” Morgan sounds unimpressed. He sweeps a hand down the front of his suit. “Trust my word, this is more than you can afford if you piled the heads of bounties to the rooftops.”

“No, I know, I’m being lied to and I need…” Bruce grits his teeth as he fights to find the words.

Morgan drums his fingers against the brickwork.

“An edge, yes? A certain…advantage in finding the truth, yes, that I think I can facilitate. It might take some detective work to actually get to the man but here.” Morgan flicks his wrist and a data card appears in his gloved hand. “A little digital lie detector of mine.”

Morgan holds out the drive to him.

“This is your last chance. After this, there is no turning back.” He says seriously, then adds. “You take the red pill—you stay in Wonderland, and I show you how deep the rabbit hole goes. Remember: all I'm offering is the truth. Nothing more.”

Bruce takes the drive. Morgan doesn’t let go of it.

“Just out of curiosity, what are you planning on doing with this, hmm?” He asks. “Surely you can handle sneaking around a _circus_ without my help.”

“The Justice League will want to stop me. I won’t let them.” Bruce’s ice blue eyes look fearlessly up at the mask, daring him to try and stop him.

Morgan lets go. There is a hint of grin about the featureless mask.

“Good luck with that.” He says and his tone is genuine.

He watches as Bruce goes. He waits until the kid is completely out of sight before reactivating his suit’s stealth features and fading back into invisibility. Morgan leans back against the wall with a small smile on his face. Interesting kid. He clicks on his com link to a familiar channel.

“Mistress Talia?” He says. “I’ve found an interesting prospect for you.”

Bruce returns to the Circus with the drive resting heavy in his pocket.

He has answers now, he has a direction and while the betrayal of his family stung he knew the scale of the problem now. That meant he could start moving towards a solution instead of letting it eat at him. Those he had trusted had lied to protect him, now he will lie to protect them. They can hardly complain now he was playing by their rules, could they? His anger hasn’t cooled as much as hardened into a point; a shining, sharp, hidden blade.

He makes his apologies to the rest of the circus and takes over several of their chores to make up for walking out during a show. He laughs off the shattered phone, makes excuses and lets them draw their own conclusions. It wasn’t like him being moody was a new thing; the circus knew him well enough to know when to give him his distance. It helps, being alone gives him time to start his plans.

Bruce is chopping the tomatoes for dinner when there is a now familiar flash of golden light and an unexpected hand on his shoulder. He grabs it without thinking and throws the owner over the table before leaping after them and bearing them to the ground with the knife pressed against their throat.

Barry grins at him.

“Hi Bruce.”

The tension relaxes from Bruce’s shoulders and he moves the knife away.

“Barry.” He says with a small nod of acknowledgement and offers a hand to help him up. “You must have known I would throw you.”

“Had to check it was you.” Barry says and takes the hand.

This seems perfectly logical to Bruce; it wasn’t paranoid when there really was something out to get you and Bruce truly believes the man in yellow is real. He doesn’t know how Barry stays so cheerful knowing he was being hunted by a Metahuman killer so fast only the Flash would be able to stop him. The man in yellow was some kind of malevolent force of nature, a being made of pure hate, that not only would but _delighted_ in being able to hurt a child and he had never given up the hunt.

Barry had told him once when he was younger he used to feed the sparrows that lived in the garden and they would fly up to the windowsill to peck at the breadcrumbs he left for them. It was a small thing, but it made him happy, until one morning he woke up and found their stiffened corpses lined up in a row on the windowsill with their necks broken. He had buried them all by himself before Wally woke up and never fed the birds again. Anything that could be taken from you, would be. It was the deep fear, the fear that dyed the bones and seeped into the marrow until you couldn’t remember life without it.

“I take it Wally’s here too?” Bruce asks.

“Dick mentioned you busted your phone so Wally picked up a spare burner from the station until you get a new one.” Barry tells him.

“That’s kind of him.” Bruce says carefully.

He breathes out. He liked Barry, Barry trusted him with his secret, but he doesn’t know if he could trust Barry with this.

“Barry, do you know who the Flash is?” Bruce asks him.

For a fraction of a second Barry’s entire body blurs as he kicks his reaction into hyper-speed to hide it from view.

“Bruce, I can’t tell you.” He says in a voice soft with fear he’s going to drive away his friend.

Bruce nods. Barry could at least keep a secret; while the exact nature of the link between their powers was cause for speculation Barry was unquestionably under the protection of the Flash. He had to be, otherwise the man in yellow would have already finished what he started when he killed Barry’s mother. Of all his friends Barry was the one who knew his pain.

“They found Joe Chill.” He confesses.

Barry’s eyes widen as everything clicks.

“Bruce, that’s…” the word ‘great’ fades on his tongue; it doesn’t match the atmosphere. “What are you going to do now?” he asks instead.

“Something stupid.” Bruce says with full honesty. “Everything…It’s almost over now.” He gestures to the tent around him. “All of this…it was only supposed to be temporary and now that they have him, I don’t know what comes after this. Dick…He’s been lying to me. To keep me from finding out.” He gives Barry a piercing look. “I don’t know who I can trust.”

“You can trust me Bruce.” Barry immediately says. “We made a blood oath, remember?”

“I had a visitor from the Justice League today.” Bruce tells him. “He said that since Ravager targeted the circus there’s been villains watching us. I spoke to one of them. He did me a favor, it’ll blow over soon, but you can’t tell Dick.”

“You made a deal with a _supervillain_?” Barry’s voice is equally disapproving and worried and Bruce winces; this is exactly why he didn’t want to tell anyone. If Barry thinks he’s gotten himself in danger with supervillains he’d tell both Dick and the Flash and he’d never be free again.

“Barely a deal and barely a villain.” He replies, trying to downplay the situation. Small lies to cover the larger ones to come. “More of an…informer. It’s handled; he got paid out of it so I’m not in debt to him, don’t worry. No-one will get hurt because of this.”

Barry breathes out and shakes his head.

“I don’t know Bruce, that’s pretty serious…” he says.

“It’s under control!” Bruce snaps. “Just trust me, okay? I have everything under control!”

He is lying.

“Okay, if you’re sure…” Barry leaves his sentence hanging like a noose and Bruce doesn’t mention the drive weighing his pockets. “I won’t tell Wally…or Dick.” He promises. “But don’t go doing anything too stupid. Let’s just go, you’ve got to apologize to Dick for breaking your phone first.”

“I make no promises.” Bruce replies immediately with a small smile. “And I still have to finish chopping the—” there is a flash of golden light and it is done. “­—vegetables. Hmn. Very well.”

Bruce taps a spot on the side of his neck.

“You’ve got a little bit, right here.” He says and Barry wipes the tiny bit of tomato skin away before anyone can mistake it for a wound.

“Thanks.” Barry smiles and they leave.

It is easy, it is too easy to pretend nothing has happened. He puts aside the mask of Brightwing and pulls on the mask of Bruce Grayson to hide behind. The Black Spider’s gift weighs heavily in his pocket. Soon, soon he will have to use it. For now he is called on to pretend nothing is wrong.

Later he would take the drive and the computer Dick didn't know he knew the password to. He'd watch the program spread black spiderweb lines of black against the screen as it broke through the encoded barriers keeping hidden all the things that he wasn't permitted to know.

In the end, the Truth will Out.


	11. Smallville

The first time Bruce sees a hero that is his own age it is on the television.

Everyone knew about the Kryptonians; the super-powered alien race that had made earth their home. Kara Zor-El’s Address to the UN was in every history text book: “I came here from a dying world,” She had said. “A world destroyed by pride and ignorance and greed. I have seen you are a people with a capacity for great kindness and great cruelty. I am proud to live here, I am proud to call humanity friend and I am proud to protect the world that gave me a second chance at a home. As long as there are still people who act with kindness, compassion and integrity I will stand to defend them.”

News coverage was always depressing; Dick hated it, much preferring to watch family sitcoms instead, but Bruce couldn’t stand not knowing what was going on in the world. There was always hardship, always war and death and pain but there was always hope too. Then there he was, a new _Kryptonian,_ tiny and indistinct on the screen, pulling people from the rubble. Bruce nearly reached out to touch the screen to check it was real.

The news team were already clamouring with questions over who the father was. To Bruce’s mind they were missing the point. This ‘Superboy’ was out there, saving people, protecting them, helping them and he was doing it despite being only Bruce’s age!

It was something his mind chewed over in the long cross-country car-ride to visit his friend. Dick, having accidentally queued ‘I’m gonna be (500 miles)’ by the Proclaimers five times in a row on his car-trip playlist, realizes how wrapped up Bruce is when he doesn’t complain about it.

“Looking forward to seeing Kal huh?” He asks.

Bruce is, but that’s not what he’s thinking about. He _is_ looking forward to getting to meet Kal in person; Kal had lost his parents too, when he was just a baby, and was raised by his cousin Kara. Between them they had enough units to fill a nuclear family.

Tim and Connor were going to be there too, something about Connor’s father being related to Kal’s grandfather but Bruce isn’t quite sure how the family line works out. Whatever disaster had forced the family here had left many empty spaces in their family tree.

Bruce had invited Jason to join them too, but as soon as he heard Tim was going to be there Jason had backed out and made excuses.

Bruce had asked Dick why, not expecting to get a straight answer, and Dick had told him that Jason and Tim had worked together in the same job Dick had worked, before he had left Gotham, and when Jason had gotten…injured on the job Tim had blamed himself for not being able to prevent it. Bruce noted the pause before Dick says injured, as if he is picking a lie to use.

Bruce asks if there was anything Tim could have done to prevent it. Dick sighs. Not really, he says, but that doesn’t stop Tim from blaming himself. Bruce understands that. Tim worked very hard to keep everyone safe, sometimes too hard in Dick’s opinion (which always struck Bruce as hypocritical).

Dick had misinterpreted his silence and said they could spend next Thanksgiving with Jason if Bruce is worried he’s being left out. Bruce is well-aware if he told Jason Dick had said that there would be another fight; Jason hated being treated like a consolation prize. For someone who cared so much about making friends, Dick could be really insensitive sometimes, without meaning to.

Bruce stays thinking as they pull off the main roads and further into the rural community. The circus hadn’t spent much time outside of cities and Bruce had to admit he’d started to find the open road stretches between each sprawling cityscape soothing. Farmlands however left him feeling slightly unnerved. There was a subtle creeping sense of agoraphobia to it; the fields stretched endlessly across the horizon, broken up by the occasional tree in what Bruce imagines the primeval plains of the dawn of humankind must have looked like. Bruce hated feeling so exposed; out in the open with no place to hide by a million places threats might lurk unseen. The wheels raise a cloud of dust from the dirt-and-gravel road as they pull up the driveway to the Kent family farm. Bruce much preferred the feeling of pavement under his feet. They've been expected; Tim and Conner are outside on the porch, probably discussing business by the way they stop when the trailer pulls up, and Kara walks up with a dark-haired boy beaming and waving at her side.

There he is, his alien friend, acting shy and clumsy with his glasses half-slipping off his nose. He’s not a bad actor, Bruce thinks, but Bruce wasn’t fooled for a second. That was the face he had seen on the television, he knew it. Kal had confessed he was an alien hiding on earth by pretending to be human at around the same time Bruce confessed he was a millionaire orphan living in a circus, being raised by an acrobat who was also a cop. There was some awkwardness on Kal’s part when he realized neither of them was lying, Bruce was entirely prepared to believe him, and he would be in so much trouble when Kara found out. He had nearly cried and Bruce had laughed, and said who would believe him anyway? No-one thought Kryptonians had secret identities.

Dick pulls open the trailer door and Bruce immediately and joyfully leaps on Kal and struggles to wrestle him to the ground.

“Bruce, no biting.” Dick warns him absentmindedly, used to Bruce’s usual way of greeting his friends. “You’ll hurt your teeth. Happy Thanksgiving Kara.”

“Happy Thanksgiving Dick, <Kal, no powers.>” Kara adds in Kryptonian. “<Just let him win.>”

“<I’m not using powers.>” Kal protests loudly. “<I’m not letting him win either! He’s harder to grab than a greased pig Kara!>”

Bruce flips him and twists his arm behind his back.

“Hah!” Bruce says as he pins Kal’s arms behind his head. “I win! Told you I could do it.”

“No fair!” Kal complains. “You cheated!”

“Nu-uh.” Bruce adds.

“Yuh-huh!” Kal says.

“Boys, go play in the trailer while I talk to Aunt Kara.” Dick tells them.

“Alright.” Bruce says reluctantly and lets Kal get to his feet. “Bet I can beat you at Streetfighter too!”

“No way!” Kal says and follows Bruce indoors. “Dibs on Ryu!”

Kal climbs onto the couch as Bruce turns the TV on and slots in the game disc before sitting on the couch next to him and handing him a controller. To Kal's surprise Bruce then gets out his phone and there is a brief pause before Kal's phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out; one new message, from Bruce.

[Can you still hear them?] Bruce's message says.

Kal looks up from his phone and nods. A brief pause of moving fingers from the other side of the couch.

[Tell me what they’re saying] Bruce texts an order as he selects demo mode from the main screen. The TV immediately starts playing a pre-recorded animation of gameplay and Kal frowns.

[We can still play the game afterwards right?] He asks with a considerably slower text speed.

[Of course!] Bruce replies with a small frown, looking offended Kal would suggest otherwise.

[Eavesdropping is rude Bruce] Kal messages half-heartedly, well aware of how much trouble they’d both be in if their guardians knew they were listening in and knowing he was going to do it anyway.  He can’t resist; Bruce always had the most entertainingly terrible ideas and Kal got dragged along by his desire to have the other boy think he was cool.

Kal feels a rush at doing something he’s not supposed to and closes his eyes to focus better on the sound of the adult’s conversation through the walls. He misses Bruce’s smug little smile at getting him to do it. The lead based paint on the trailer walls meant Kara probably couldn’t see them, but he knows she would be listening to her surroundings, which meant that she’d pick up if he started parroting her. He starts to transcribe the conversation for Bruce.

Dick sounds distinctly unhappy and Kal flinches when he realizes they are talking about him.

“Yeah, yeah miss ‘Nobel Prize under an assumed name’ you clearly know so much more than us mere primitive humans.” Dick says bitterly and Kal realizes they must have started arguing as soon as he and Bruce went inside.

“Being here is like being sent back a thousand years Dick.” Kara points out. “On Krypton I was a good student; here I nearly flunked out of high-school because your understanding of science is so far below what is known to every Kryptonian child. I came here prepared for things to be different, but not that different!”

“You were found at age thirteen, wandering barefoot in a Kansas cornfield, in strange clothes, unable to understand English and holding a screaming baby.” Dick points out. “That doesn’t sound very prepared.”

“The Kents thought I was an illegal alien child bride escaped from a cult.” Kara says fondly. “They still took me in, taught me English, and gave me a home here.” Kara pauses and gives a soft sigh. “Then the powers started kicking in and they found ‘alien’ was more appropriate than they thought. I had no idea what was happening, first time I started flying I nearly screamed the house down, non-metaphorically.”

“That must have been tough.” Dick’s tone has turned more sympathetic.

“You have no idea.” Kara says, her voice tinged with sadness. “Conner has it easy; he may have been cloned from great-uncle Jon El but half of him is human, he belongs to this planet.”

She sighs.

“Earth is amazing, it really is, but I miss Krypton. I miss my home, and Kal will never know it.” She says sadly.

“Is that why you’re letting him do hero work?” Dick asks and his tone is like the 'good cop' during an interrogation. “So he can feel like he belongs here?”

“Don’t you take that tone with me.” Kara says back with steel in her voice. “You might be the League’s Internal Affairs Officer but this isn’t one of your random inspections. I’m not under investigation by the League, I invited you here as a _friend_ and the only thing stopping me from uninviting you is that I’d have to explain to Kal why he can’t play with his friend for longer.”

Kal pauses in his transcription, aware of Bruce’s eyes on him, then substitutes the mentions of the League with mentions of a generic position. He feels Bruce’s eyes prickle on his skin and has a sneaking suspicion that Bruce knows he is lying. Kal offers up a silent apology, not sure if Bruce is telepathic but feeling like he is. Bruce had made it clear; his trust was a frail thing rarely given and once lost could never be regained. He prays Bruce will forgive him.

“Maybe you should be under investigation.” Dick says sourly, then realizes he has gone a bit too far because when he speaks again his tone is less bitter. “Traveler's tongue, Kara, it’s a big decision!”

“Wally lets Barry help him.” Kara points out.

“And I hate that too!” Dick argues back. “That wasn’t a choice Wally made; Barry got attacked by the Reverse Flash and had to defend himself.”

“How is this any different?” Kara asks him.

“The difference is you’re permitting this, no, you’re _encouraging_ it. This isn’t self-defense; this is an active decision you have made to let him endanger himself!” Dick argues and if he gets any louder he'd be heard inside the trailer without super-hearing.

“Yes, it _is_ a decision I have made.” Kara says in a tone that brooks no argument and clearly says that if Dick continues to question her there will be a fight.

Dick sighs and there is a pause as he takes a few breaths to steady himself.

“I am sorry Kara, I didn’t mean to get carried away.” Dick apologizes. “This is a rather…personal issue for me and I got more riled up than I should. I am not accusing you of being a bad parent; I know how much you care for Kal and you wouldn’t make a decision regarding his safety on a whim. I might not approve but I also do not have the moral authority to demand you reverse your decision.”

Dick sighs and his tone goes soft and sad.

“This is just something I have trouble accepting.” Dick says. “I don’t want this becoming a thing the League just accepts; using children to fight our wars. I guess I’m just afraid.”

There is a pause and Dick’s voice gets softer and quieter.

“I’m afraid I’m losing Bruce, Kara.” Dick says quietly. “He was attacked in the circus, in his _home_ , because of me. He’s growing more distant, I don’t know how long I’ll be able to keep him safe from this world. He’s fighting me, he _wants_ to know and I can’t tell him the truth, I just can’t. What do I do Kara? How do I keep him safe?”

“I talked with Jason.” Kara says. “Bruce wanted him to teach him to kill.”

Dick sighs.

“He didn’t say.” Dick says, not indicating if he is talking about Jason or Bruce.

“Bruce is restless Dick, he needs an outlet for his energy.” Kara tells him seriously. “Kal can handle it, Bruce can too.”

“You only feel safe risking Kal because he’s invulnerable.” Dick says dismissively. “I can’t risk Bruce’s safety in the same way.”

“I am not risking Kal because he’s invulnerable!” Kara sounds wounded. “Kal made his own decision; he can’t stand by and let people suffer when he can take action to help them. He would do so with or without my permission, Dick. I have just chosen to make sure he is prepared.”

“This isn’t Krypton Kara.” Dick argues back. “Humans don’t have the same militaristic culture that justifies risking a child’s safety like that.”

Kara sighs and leans against the trailer wall.

“Tell me Dick, do you really think Bruce will accept that _excuse_?” She asks.

There is a pause.

“He’s going to have to.” Dick says with a grim finality that makes it clear that in his eyes the conversation is over. “Even if he hates me for it I will keep him safe. I am not going to involve him in this Kara. He deserves a normal life and I am going to make sure he gets one. This is not open for discussion.”

Kal hesitates but sends the last words to his friend. There is a small delay as the message sends then another smaller one as Bruce reads it.

Bruce goes stiff with anger and Kal flinches at the hatred dark in his friend’s eyes. Without saying a word Bruce turns off the TV, gets to his feet and walks to the closet.

“Bruce?” Kal softly asks as he stands also and notices Bruce pull an aluminium bat from an upper shelf.

“Don’t come near me, I’m angry.” Bruce says without looking up, pointing the bat at him in what is clearly a threat. Kal’s heartbeat jolts to his throat.

He bends down and pulls out a cardboard box out from the closet floor, tucking under his arm as he leaves. The door slams shut behind him. Kal jolts as he realizes he is being left behind with no explanation and scrambles after him. Bruce has kept on walking without a look behind him, heading determinedly across the field in a straight line with his eyes fixed ahead of him.

“Where are you going?” Kal asks as he catches up. There was nothing out this way but more fields.

“To break things.” Bruce replies without looking back.

“Bruce, you can’t just…I know you’re angry but…” Kal stammers. Bruce silences him with a dark look and puts the cardboard box down on the stile that marks the fence line. Now it’s not tucked under Bruce’s arm Kal can see the multiple discount stickers on its surface. It’s a battered looking dining set.

“Shut up and throw or leave me alone.” Bruce gives a dark ultimatum and tosses something in an easy underhand arch at Kal.

Kal catches it and looks it over. It’s a teacup, already chipped in places with a long crack running down from the rim and blotchy discoloration on the body. That explains the discount stickers and if it was broken already…

Bruce takes a batting stance, his dark eyes daring Kal to throw it. Kal decides he’s come this far, he might as well, and pitches the teacup to Bruce. Bruce swings and, with a sharp sound, shatters the cup into ceramic splinters.

“Again.” He demands, drawing the bat back again and Kal looks in the box. The rest of the box is equally cracked and chipped. There are another two teacups in the box, one missing its handle entirely.

Kal fishes out another teacup and pitches it underhand. Bruce swings hard, the bat nearly leaving his hands from the force of it as he follows through with his entire body, and shards spray out from the point of impact.

“Again.” Bruce demands and, even though Kal knows he is more than capable of defending himself against a normal human, something about Bruce’s eyes is scaring him.

Kal throws the last cup to him and Bruce hits it upwards with a sharp crack. There is a brief rain of shards, one nearly intact segment lands by Bruce’s feet and he crushes it with a swift jab of the bat.

“Again.” He demands.

“There aren’t any more cups.” Kal tells them.

“Then throw a plate.” Bruce says with a sarcastic roll of his eyes and Kal is reassured to see at least some of his friend is coming back. Kal tosses him a plate like a Frisbee for Bruce to bat out of the air with another sharp crash of cracking crockery.

Bruce shatters two plates, giving extra whacks to a few stray shards when he feels they aren’t broken enough before he relaxes with a soft sigh, the unnatural tension leaving his limbs as he raises a hand to get Kal to stop and rests the bat on his shoulders.

“That’s enough, I’m done.” He says and runs his fingers through his hair, still with a bitter expression on his face but with his rage seemingly focused inwards rather than threatening to escape. “…Thanks for helping.” He adds, his voice fumbling and uncertain. “I probably scared you right?” He asks.

Kal nods. Bruce frowns.

“Right. Sorry.” He says, sounding unfamiliar with apologizing. “You didn’t do anything wrong, I’m not angry at you.” He adds. “I just…” He breathes out and runs his fingers through his hair again. “I get really strong bursts of emotion sometimes, I have to do something physical to bleed out the feelings because if I bottle them up I’ll snap and end up chew off someone’s ear off.” He taps the tip of the bat against his temple, leaving a fine smear of white china dust against his skin. “Bad braining, you know?”

Kal doesn’t but it feels like it is going to be a chore to explain and it would probably make them both uncomfortable. He nods instead.

Bruce points to the box with the bat. “Breaking stuff makes me feel better; they’re factory offcuts, I get them for $3.50 a box.” He says to reassure Kal. “We’re not going to get in trouble.”

“In Kansas we mostly use baseball bats to hit baseballs with.” Kal snarks, already forgetting his fear of Bruce now the dark mood has passed and Bruce is back to being just kind of weird.

Bruce smiles.

“You never break something for the sheer joy on unmaking something that was once whole?” He asks. He is deliberately trying to see if he can freak Kal out now, but he’s had enough practice at it that Kal can’t tell.

Kal shakes his head.

“Weird world.” Bruce says.

Kal bites his tongue to hold off from saying he’s pretty sure Bruce is the weird one here. If you can’t say something nice don’t say anything at all and so on.

His friend grins and picks up one of the plates. To Kal’s surprise he tosses it up and spins it on the end of the bat, bouncing it with a ‘gloing’ sound he didn’t know crockery could make.

“Wanna give it a try farm boy?” Bruce asks with an impish grin. “It’s more fun when you know you’re not going to get in trouble for it.”

That was Bruce and his wonderfully terrible ideas. Kal doesn’t know why he always goes along with them, except that smug little smile of Bruce’s that says ‘you won’t do it’ made him really want to wipe it off his face.

“Give me the bat.” Kal says with a resigned sigh and holds out his hand.

Bruce bounces the plate back into his other hand and hands the bat over handle first.

“You have no excuse for missing.” Bruce snarks as he tosses the plate in a slow overhead arch.

Kal swings and, though he is expecting it, he still flinches when he hears the sharp crack of a breaking plate. He had broken too many plates by accident not to feel a stab of guilt at the sound. Shards of pottery patter onto the dirt.

“Bruce, what are you doing?” Dick asks from across the field. Kal jumps guiltily and quickly puts down the bat. Bruce laughs at him.

“Breaking stuff!” Bruce calls back to Dick.

Kal sees Aunt Kara give him a _look_ that’s both a scolding and a warning. He flinches.

“Alright. Remember to clean up after.” Dick calls back. He lowers his voice as he addresses Kara again, low enough that only someone with super-hearing could pick it up. “He probably lost at his videogame again.”

Kara, who had heard the fighting game but no clicking of controller buttons being pressed, doesn’t comment.

“I can help clean-up!” Kal says. “I’ll…” Kal pauses as he realizes that while Bruce is aware of his abilities he still isn’t allowed to use them. “Go get the dustpan.” He finishes.

Bruce raises an eyebrow a fraction and supresses the desire to laugh at him.

“I can clean up my own mess Kal.” He points out. “I know how a dustpan works.”

“Yeah, well it will get done quicker if I help.” Kal says.

He gets the dustpan and brush. He holds the pan still for Bruce while Bruce brushes the fragments of pottery into it, then dumps the lot in a bag and ties it off with a practised ease.

“Thanks.” Bruce says off-hand, noticing the smear of china dust in the reflection of the trailer door and wiping it off with a frown.

“Boys, dinner is ready!” Kara‘s voice calls from inside and Kal gives Bruce a look that desperately pleads for him not to let on what they overheard. Bruce nods once, solemnly, and with steel in his eyes.

By the time they step inside the farmhouse, filled with the delicious smells of roasted turkey, Bruce appears to have entirely forgotten his anger like he had never been angry at all.

Kal feels a stab of unease at how perfectly Bruce could lie. Bruce was better at acting than he was, with years of experience in lying between them, and Kal wonders if he really knew anything about his friend or if it was all fabricated for him to find. A shiver of dread runs down his spine and he struggles to keep himself cheerful. Bruce’s moment of anger has passed and the information he has gained has been filed away somewhere in his head for later. Kal hates how used to it he seems, he's worried about Bruce now.

“<Looking a bit down there Kal.>” Kara points out.

Kal makes himself smile as he sits down at the table. Bruce takes his seat by Dick and is served a portion of Turkey with cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes and some roasted vegetables.

“<I’m fine.>” Kal reassures Kara in Kryptonian. “<I heard you arguing.>” He half confesses.

Kara frowns.

“<Eavesdropping is rude Kal.>” She scolds. “<But don’t worry. I’m not going to stop you acting as a hero.>”

“<Thanks Kara.>” Kal smiles. “<Kon, does that mean when I get older we’ll both be Superman?>” He asks.

Conner laughs.

“<Not sure.>” He says. “<I guess we’ll find out when the time comes?>”

Ma Kent gives them a look over the table as she pours gravy, and every Kryptonian looks sheepish and simultaneously apologizes for speaking Kryptonian at the table with guests present. Dick chuckles under his breath.

“Alright then, let’s all say what we are thankful for.” Ma says once the apologizing wraps up.

“I’ll start.” Dick says as he sneakily adds a few more vegetables to Bruce’s plate. “I am thankful for friends…and family.”

He nudges Bruce. Bruce looks up and for a moment his eyes meet Kal’s across the table.

“I am thankful for people I can trust.” He says quietly.

The words and the look that came with them seemed like a half a threat to Kal. They stick in his head until after dinner, through the movie they watch as a family and are still lingering by the time the sun has set and it is time to go to bed. The house is fuller than it usually was and that meant they had to share rooms.

Kal can’t sleep so he looks at the stars. Kal lies flat on the inflatable camp bed and looks up at the sky through the bedroom window. The night sky here was beautiful; the stars sparkled beautifully like a dusting of powdered sugar across a black counter-top. One of them had been Krypton’s not so long ago that its light wasn’t still beaming down on them. Kal wonders which one it was.

His phone hums in the pocket of his jeans and, aware he’s not getting any sleepier, Kal fishes it out and unlocks it.

[Do you think you could do it?] The new message lights up on the cell phone screen, under the rest of the transcribed conversation.

[Do what?] Kal texts Bruce back.

[If Kara forbade you, would you stop saving people?] Bruce’s next message asks.

Kal looks at the question pulse on screen for a minute.

[Bruce, it’s not the same] He types. [You’re human] _and I’m not...._ Kal thinks.

[Answer the question] Bruce replies and Kal can picture his little frown of annoyance now.

Kal takes a deep breath and feels a little thrill of dread. He knows what the answer is but he feels there are no right answers in the situation.

[No] he replies [I wouldn’t stop]

There is a long pause in which Kal receives no reply.

[Bruce?] He asks and more time trickles by without a response.

[Bruce, don’t do anything stupid] Kal sends.

The reply is near immediate.

[Don’t worry about me Kal] Bruce responds and Kal feels it’s an order.

There is a pause where Kal looks at the screen, his fingers hovering over the keyboard, wishing he knew what to do. A dozen half-sentences flit through his head but all fade and die before he has the courage to type any of them. What can he say in this situation?

A new message pulses onto his screen; another order.

[This is becoming incriminating. Delete this conversation]

Kal does so but feels a sense of looming dread as he does. He feels like he should tell Kara but what was there to tell? Kara had already tried to convince Dick Bruce was ready to help, what could he add except his fear that Bruce might do something very, very stupid?

The screen’s back-light switches off and leaves Kal alone in the dark.


	12. Gotham Outskirts

Circus cant and thieves’ cant had a lot in common; they were both secret languages, only alive while they were unknown to anyone outside of their sect. Like with any language there were certain…cultural exchanges and Bruce found that with care one could be substituted for another.

He was still branded as an outsider in the city he was born, but an outsider thief was still a thief, and there was famously honor there. As long as he didn’t cause trouble, the code of Omertà protected him. The traces of an upper-class Gotham accent weren’t much of a cause for concern; the pit embraced all who fell, no matter how far the fall was. Bruce _liked_ the city. It had all the grace of a wild dog; if you growled at it, it growled back. Like in all cities they visited Bruce had found teachers here, just not ones Dick approved of.

Dick holds up the wallet with two fingers, like it was a dead mouse.

“Bruce, did you steal this?” He demands.

Bruce looks down and to the side, his cheeks burning with the shame of being found out and it’s as good as a confession.

“Damn it Bruce! Have I not been giving you enough pocket money that you feel you have to steal more?” Dick demands and Bruce looks up with a stubborn gleam in his eyes. “What is it about this place that turns you into a reckless little hooligan as soon as you cross the city limits?”

“Selina bet I couldn’t…” He starts to say and Dick cuts him off with a sigh.

“And who is Selina? You know what, I don’t care. Pickpocketing Bruce, really? Do you want to make those racists right?”

Bruce looks down again and Dick sighs.

“Fine, you know what, if you’re so bored, you just got a summer job!” Dick snaps and drops a stack of flyers in front of him.

Bruce glares up at him, biting his lip but his eyes are alive with stubborn fire.

“If you want a real challenge, see how many people’s pockets you can get these into. I’ll even pay you for it. You’ll find a flyer is a lot trickier than a wallet, and if you dump them in the trash I will _know_ , do you understand me?” Dick orders.

Bruce kicks at the ground, his hands flexing as he considers it.

“Fine…” He mutters.

“Oh and tell ‘Selina’ that if she wants to put-pocket some flyers I’ll pay her too.” Dick adds.

Bruce groans.

“Put-pocket, really?” He says. “That’s terrible even for you!”

“You used to like my puns.” Dick says teasingly.

“Your puns have always been terrible.” Bruce replies. “I’m taking the flyers but I’m going out.”

“ _You_ are going to return this.” Dick says and flicks the wallet back at him. “And be back by nine.”

Bruce picks up the flyers.

“Fine, I’ll turn the wallet in to the cops.” He says with a sigh.

“And be back by nine.” Dick prompts with a warning tone.

“Sure.” Bruce says neutrally.

“I mean it Bruce.” Dick warns. “We’re going to have a long talk about this when I get back.”

“Fine.” Bruce rolls his eyes.

“Don’t you roll your eyes at me young man.” Dick scolds. “We’ve talked about this.”

“He deserved it.” Bruce mutters darkly.

“I don’t care if he deserved it, it isn’t an excuse to go around stealing things!” Dick snaps. “You’re on thin ice buddy, just don’t do anything to cause any more trouble alright?” He says.

“…Fine.” Bruce agrees and Dick gives him one last warning glare before he leaves. As usual Dick doesn't say where he was going.

Bruce throws down the wallet and frowns at it. It hadn’t been easy to steal and the guy really did deserve it. Selina had taken the cash and dumped the credit cards for being too easy to trace, but she’d let him keep the wallet itself as a trophy. Bruce should have known Dick would find it and complain, but no matter how much Dick scolded him he didn’t feel guilty about it. He’d do it again in a heartbeat.

Bruce rolls onto his back and stares blankly at the ceiling. Dick had told him to stay out of trouble and now he was wondering what trouble he can get into just to spite him. He has a good idea of where to start.

Five minutes later he hears the familiar thrum of Jason’s motorcycle and opens the window. Jason pulls up alongside the trailer and flicks open the visor of his helmet.

“Hey kid, want to grab a beer?” Jason asks with a roguish grin as he leans casually against the handlebars.

“I’m fifteen Jay.” Bruce rolls his eyes.

“And this is Gotham. I know a couple of places…” Jason starts to say and Bruce rolls his eyes. “What, you’re scared Dick’ll find out?”

“If Dick finds out you let me get drunk he is going to kick your ass so hard you won’t be able to sit for a week.” Bruce tells him matter-of-factly.

“That means you’re coming then.” Jason says, entirely unfazed.

“Of course.” Bruce says as he grabs his jacket from the table.

“Thought so.” Jason says, tossing him the spare helmet and revving up his bike.

Bruce leaves the wallet on the table without a second thought as they leave the lights of the circus behind them. From the fairgrounds the streets wind and twist like a dropped ball of twisted threads in the grimy alleyways of the city's seedy underbelly.

At the bar they chug some non-alcoholic beers at the counter and play Jason’s favorite bar game of ‘Guess who’s guilty of what?’ The odds of someone at one of Jason’s bars not being guilty of anything are so low it isn't worth considering. It was what Jason called a Thug Bar, where people drunk to prove they were tough guys and maybe pick up some odd jobs of the less-than-legal kind. Any other fifteen-year-old walking in there would be walking out trying to hold in their intestines.

They’ve already decided the group in one shady corner are black market, the group in another shady corner are drug dealers and the group in a third shady corner are with one of the crime families. The bar is mostly made up of shady corners to hold illicit deals in, using dividing walls to make sure said corners were shady enough.

Jason and Bruce are just deciding whether the crime family is the Irish one or the Scottish one when someone new comes in. Jason nudges Bruce to draw his attention

“What about this one?” Jason prompts.

Bruce gives them a quick look-over; cataloging the tattoos marking them as having survived several jobs with the less stable crime bosses, the knife scars and shaved head.

“Henchman.” Bruce snorts dismissively. “Not even enforcer level. A street thug that probably beats his wife and gets his kicks out of scaring grannies in alleyways because he doesn’t have the balls or the brains to do anything harder.”

The henchman pauses and Bruce knows he must have heard at least some of that.

“This a suicide, kid?” He asks.

“Suicide, that’s a whole three syllables. Your mother must be so proud.” Jason replies.

“Think you can go for four this time?” Bruce adds.

“Like hell I’m going to take this from a drunkass deadbeat and his underage brat.” The henchman snarls. “Do you know who I work for?”

“Nope.” Jason drains his beer. “And I don’t care.”

“Looks like four syllables is too much to ask.” Bruce adds.

The henchman swings at him.

Jason pulls his helmet from the bar-top and swings it around as a bludgeon. A shell of fiberglass reinforced with Kevlar and carbon fiber, designed to withstand a crash at over 200 mph, impacts the bridge of the henchman’s nose. The result is predictable; a streak of darker red smears across the red painted helmet and a sickening crunch. The henchman reels, clutching at his broken nose as it spurts blood onto the floorboards, but he manages to stay standing.

“Hate to break it to you bud but you’re not the main meal, hell, you’re not even hors d'oeuvres. Bruce, what’s smaller than hors d'oeuvres?” Jason asks.

“An Amuse-bouche Jay.” Bruce tells him.

“Right, you’re an amuse-bouche douche.” Jason says and decks him.

This time the henchman falls with a thud. There is a noticeable silence following the sound as the whispered deals pause and the bar-room looks at him. The silence is filled with the subtle sound of big, big men getting up and pointedly cracking their knuckles. Jason rotates his shoulders and stares them down.

“Well?” He asks. “What are you waiting for?”

The evening’s bar fight commences.

Bruce ducks under the desperately swung arm of a wild hay-maker and passes his empty beer bottle to Jason’s waiting hand so he can break it in the face of the thug attempting to garrote him. Bruce then kicks his attacker in the crotch, hard, and grabs him when he crumples to slam his head against the bar and knock him out.

A knife flashes past his ear. Bruce draws his own knife and pins the offending hand to the bar with it. Jason is leaving a rapidly widening circle of bodies around him as he ducks and weaves under the blows of inexpert boxers. Bruce tosses a man at least three times his age and over four times his weight over his shoulder and Jason finishes him off with a solid boot to the face. Jason back-flips and pushes off the bar for extra height and momentum, already raising his hands over his head, and Bruce throws a bar stool to him just in time for Jason to swing it down and splinter it over a shaved head with a satisfying crack.

“Duck!” Jason calls out and Bruce obeys without question. The unconscious body of a heavily muscled thug sails over his head and into the thug trying to sneak up behind him.

Bruce takes advantage of the small moment of breathing room to leap onto the bar, punt a pint mug into a scarred face, and leap for the light fittings. They hold long enough for him to get some height and kick a surprised seven-foot thug in the face.

The bartender has long since disappeared like someone who had been forewarned, so someone trying to flee stands out to Bruce.

“Runner!” He calls out as he narrowly avoids being stabbed by pulling someone else into the path of the knife.

Jason looks up, grunts an acknowledgement and kicks the pool table hard enough to splinter the legs and send it screeching over the floor to block the door. The runner stops and tries to find the darkest corner to hide in instead as Jason and Bruce finish wiping the floor with the rest of the bar’s patrons. Jason finishes off the last one with a solid head-butt before looking up and wiping the blood from his split lip.

“See if you can’t find me a bottle that hasn’t been broken while I talk to our friend here.” Jason asks and Bruce rolls his eyes, but knows that him standing there looking menacing won’t add much to the interrogation.

He pulls his knife free and easily leaps over the counter to sift through the broken bottles for something non-alcoholic. Now the adrenaline is wearing off his knuckles are starting to pulse with pain and he can feel the places where he wasn’t quite fast enough to avoid being hit. There’s nothing broken, or even fractured, so he doesn’t have to worry about Dick grounding him for long. He finds two bottles of non-alcoholic beer that have survived the fight among the regular bottles and hoses them down in the sink to make sure no fragments of glass remain. He also washes off an alcoholic bottle and takes a few big gulps of it while Jason can’t scold him for it, before dropping it back in the mess.

Whatever information he’s looking for Jason seems to have gotten it because he is smiling as they leave. They pick a nice-looking rooftop to disinfect and patch their wounds over the last bottles of alcohol-free beer, and look over the city streets together.

“You did good kid.” Jason tells him as he takes a gulp of celebratory post-fight beer. “I’m proud of you.”

“Looks like the little soldier isn’t so little anymore.” Bruce says back.

“You’ve grown into quite the scrapper and that’s for sure.” Jason says. “Dick still living up to his name?”

“Yup.” Bruce nods and sighs. “Why won’t he just let me fight Jay? You let me fight.”

“Hey now, don’t get it twisted, you and I both know you’d be getting into these fights with or without me. I’m just here to make sure you get out of them in one piece.” Jason tells him.

“At least you believe I _can_ fight.”  Bruce says. “Dick barely lets me leave the trailer without a supervisor.”

“Bird’s got to leave the nest some time.” Jason nods. “But he’s just looking out for you Bruce, this shit is pathological you know?”

“But you…” Bruce starts to say and Jason cuts him off.

“ _I_ am so fucked in the head my cerebellum could be re-purposed for condoms.” Jason says. “I’m not a role model.”

“Did Dick put you up to this?” Bruce accuses him to change the subject.

“I don’t need orders from Dick to care about your wellbeing Bruce.” Jason replies calmly. “Bruce…It’s still self-harm even if you’re hurting someone else at the same time. Trust me, I know.”

“I can’t just do nothing Jason!” Bruce tells him. “I can’t just stand by and do nothing when people are getting hurt and I can do something about it! At least you’re out doing stuff, kicking ass, taking names and _helping_ people. You show them they can have hope, like Red Hood did, like a hero!” Bruce exclaims.

“Like hell!” Jason laughs. “I am way too fucked up to be anyone’s hero.” He takes a swig of drink. “Heroes can’t be human.” Jason tells him. “They’ve got to be more than that, symbols, icons. Have you ever heard of what Red Hood did before he sacrificed himself? No, because he was a screw-up of a hero that couldn’t save this cursed city from itself no matter how hard he tried, and was never going to. People turned him into some kind of savior after he bit it, but if he was alive today he’d be nothing but a disappointment to them. His life only became worth something after they put him in the ground because the dead who can't fail them anymore.”

Jason takes a swig of drink.

“The best thing Red Hood ever did for Gotham was die.” Jason says.

Bruce hits him. It’s a lot like hitting a brick wall and he is sure he’s hurt his fingers more than Jason’s jaw.

Jason looks back and smiles. Blood gleams on his teeth.

“You get one free shot kid. Just one.” He says and it is a warning.

“Hope is all we have Jason.” Bruce hisses with tears glinting in his eyes. “The hope that tomorrow might be better than today, the hope that our lives _mean_ something to somebody, it’s all we have.”

Jason spits blood onto the pavement ten stories below.

“Don’t put your hope in heroes, kid.” He says. “They’ll only break your heart.”

Bruce spits off the edge of the roof.

“Gotta put my trust in something.” He says. “Don’t worry Jason, I’ll make my own way back.”

“Alright.” Jason nods, well aware that Bruce looks enough like a bar-room brawler to avoid further trouble. “Try not to get into any more trouble, I’d hate to have to swoop in and save ya dumb ass.” Jason says and lets Bruce go.

Jason’s words echo in Bruce’s head as he skulks from alleyway to alleyway, growing angrier with the older man every time he replays the conversation in his mind. His hands flex, desperate for something or someone to punch and let out his frustration. The locals look at his murderous mood and the blood drying on his knuckles and leave him be for easier prey. Bruce makes his way from the fringes of the city back to the circus without trouble.

He’s so caught up in his anger he doesn’t give a second thought to the time or that he might not be alone until he slinks back into the trailer. He finds Dick leaning against the wall with arms folded, waiting for him. It is past midnight.

“Bruce, out late again? Damn it, we’ve talked about this!” Dick snaps.

For a split-second Bruce looks guilty to be caught red-handed but it quickly turns into anger.

“I can handle myself!” He hisses. “I’m not a baby!”

“Then stop acting like one!” Dick hisses back, his face filled with worry and fear. “Jesus Bruce, have you been fighting again?”

He reaches towards the scrape mark on Bruce’s cheek and Bruce slaps his hand away.

“It’s nothing.” He says, shoving both hands into his pockets and glaring.

“It’s not nothing, you’ve been fighting again!” Dick snaps. “Damn it Bruce, do I have to chain you to the trailer like a damn dog just so you don’t hurt yourself?”

“You don’t have the guts!” Bruce snaps back.

“Really, you really think I won’t ground you?” Dick replies.

“I don’t think you can!” Bruce spits back defiantly.

“Oh really, you don’t think I can contain a little brat if I have to?” Dick snarls back.

“You’ve trained me Dick, I can handle myself.” Bruce says with such a confidence in his own abilities Dick would find it cute if he wasn’t putting himself in so much danger. “I don’t need you looking after me all the time.”

“Bruce, you’re _fifteen_.” Dick points out with his headache growing. “Why can’t you just stay where I can keep an eye on you! Why won’t you just stay safe?!” Dick is yelling too and he hates it but some alchemy of emotion is turning all his worry into anger. “Why do you always _lie_ to me?!”

Bruce laughs and it is a harsh, barked, hate-filled sound.

“I learnt it from you! You’ve done nothing _but_ lie to me, why shouldn’t I lie too?!” He hisses.

“Bruce, I do that to protect you…” Dick starts to say and Bruce laughs that strange spiteful laugh again.

“You always say that! And what good has it done, how protected do I look?” Bruce asks. “I don’t need you to protect me, I need you to trust me!”

“Trust you to sneak out and pick fights with thugs?” Dick snarls back.

“Why not? You do!” Bruce snarls back and a chill runs down Dick’s spine.

Dick laughs, a touch too high, too nervous to be convincing.

“What are you talking about?” He asks.

“When were you going to tell me you’re the Owlman?” Bruce folds his arms.

“That urban legend, isn’t he a cryptid or something?” He asks and reaches down to ruffle Bruce’s hair.

“Don’t lie to me, I hate it when you lie to me.” Bruce ducks under his hand and also gets to his feet.

He goes to the chest where he stored his most precious possessions and pops out the false bottom Dick didn’t know was there. In it is a folder he had seen Bruce with but never seen what was inside; he had assumed it was schoolwork but Dick realizes with a chill of horror that Bruce was much smarter than he was ready for.

Bruce tosses the folder onto the table in front of him.

“Open it.” He orders and Dick almost scolds him for his tone out of habit before he is shocked into silence by the steel in Bruce’s eyes.

He wordlessly opens the folder to the first page. The photographed face of Connor Kent looks back at him, side by side with news articles of Superman and several photocopied legal documents. Certain details are circled in red ink, matching the hero with their secret identity, known associates, home address, even a list of weaknesses.

Dick turns the next page.

Kara Zor-El’s face beams up at him, with seven-year-old Kal smiling proudly beside her; old photographs, Kal’s around Bruce’s age now, but there’s a lot more documents, more _evidence._

Dick turns through the pages faster; Wally West and the Flash, Red Arrow and Roy Harper, Donna Troy and Wonder Woman, Kaldur’ahm and Aquaman…All their names, all their faces, all their families, everyone that was important to them laid bare under the red ink.

He draws in a sharp breath when turns the page from Tim Drake as the Question to find pictures of Jason Todd next to the old newspaper clippings of the Red Hood before his death.

He looks up at Bruce and is shocked by how cold and accusing his eyes are.

“I can explain.” Dick says.

“Explain why you’ve had the _Justice League_ babysitting me and never thought to tell me?” Bruce’s voice and eyes are both as hard as ice.

“Why didn’t you say if you knew…?” Dick starts to ask.

“I wasn’t going to accuse you without evidence.” Bruce says, as if the folder in front of him couldn’t utterly destroy them if it got into the hands of a villain. “Otherwise you’d lie about it.” Bruce makes eye contact and Dick can’t help but feel like he is child being told off in this scenario.

Bruce reaches over the table and turns the final page and there Dick is, both in and out of uniform, with enough hard evidence to convince any newspaper or determined costumed sociopath.

“Bruce, I…” Dick starts to say and Bruce wordlessly reaches under the table and puts his cowl on top of the folder. “How did you…?” He starts to ask, his uniform was protected by a mix of alien technologies, it should be unhackable, but he falters under the steel in Bruce’s eyes. “I seem to have underestimated you.”

Nothing but sullen silence from Bruce.

“I was going for Nightwing at first but you know papers get when they give you a nickname, at first it was the Gotham Owl Man and it ended up turning into one word.” He says but fails to get a reaction from Bruce.

“Whatever you’ve been training me for, I’m ready for it.” Bruce says solemnly.

“…Traveler's tongue, Bruce, you think this was some sort of test?” Dick rubs at his temples as a stress headache stabs at his synapses. “You weren’t supposed to find out this way.”

“Were you planning on ever telling me?” Bruce asks.

“I…No.” Dick confesses. “I suppose I wasn’t. I was hoping I would never have to.”

Bruce smiles, a cold little smile without much humour in it.

“Looks like you didn’t have to tell me after all.” He says.

“Bruce, I…I just want to keep you safe.” Dick says quietly. He avoids Bruce’s eyes.

Bruce’s eyes flash with anger.

“You always say that, keep me safe, keep me safe from what?” He asks. “What’s out there that’s so big and scary I can’t even know what it is? Did me not knowing stop Ravager from targeting us?”

Dick hears the quiet venom in his tone and it sinks in how badly he has failed Bruce. He sighs and takes a deep breath in to steady himself.

“You know that the organization that ordered your parent’s death that likely wants you dead as well.” He starts, half a question and half a weary statement.

Bruce nods.

“I worked out I was here as witness protection long before I worked out where you go on your day trips.” Bruce says and Dick flinches. He thought he was being stealthy about it.

“That organization is one I’ve fought as part of the Justice League.” Dick confesses.

Bruce’s eyes widen despite his attempt to look in control of the situation.

“My parents were killed by _supervillains_?” He asks, forgetting his anger for a moment as the thought sinks in.

“On the _orders_ of supervillains.” Dick corrects. “I knew they wouldn’t give up until they killed you too, so I asked the Justice League to look over you, and help train you so if anything ever happened to me, if my enemies came after you and I couldn’t be there to protect you…I’ve been training you so you can defend yourself against them next time.”

Dick sighs.

“I’m sorry, I should have been honest from the beginning.” He says.

“You should have.” Bruce says bluntly. “So you might as well tell me everything now.”

Dick sighs and takes a seat. After a brief pause Bruce sits down opposite him. For a moment nothing is said as they watch each other over the table. The mask resting on top of the folder looks accusingly up at him with its milky white eyes.

“If you’re going to understand the choices I made I’m going to have to start at the beginning, tell you how all this” Dick gestures to the mask on the table. “came to be. Before I was a hero I was taken in by a group called the Court of Owls.”

“Like the nursery rhyme?” Bruce asks.

“Like the rhyme.” Dick nods. “They’re a secret organization of wealthy elites that run Gotham from the shadows, shaping the city to their design. After my parents died I went out for revenge. I hunted down their killer, ready to end him at the point of a knife...but the Court had beaten me to it. I found his body, impaled, and a man in a bird mask calling himself the Talon. He told me the Court sent their Talon to purge rats like my parent's killer from the world and that my resolve to do the same had had endeared me to the Court. He took me under his wing and gave me a new home. He taught me how to hide, how to fight…how to kill. He trained me, he was like a second father. We worked together, hunting down those the Court condemned and…executing them.”

His voice catches. There is so much blood on his hands from those days, so very much blood.

“Then one day the Court ordered us to fight each other to prove ourselves. It is what the Talon had been training me for. The victor would continue as their Talon, tool for purging the world, and the loser…would die. We fought. I won.”

Dick breaths out and looks down at his hands. The closeness of the memory projects blood onto his fingers.

“I held him down and cut his throat. The last thing he did, while he bled out under my hands, was tell me his real name. It was Richard; he had been a performer like me. He loved my mother dearly, and when she fell in love with someone else he became the Talon to make a world where she could be happy. I was named after him, Bruce, and I killed him…because I was ordered to. Just because I was ordered to.”

He takes a moment to calm himself.

“After that I made a vow I was never going to take another life.” Dick says. “And I vowed I wasn’t going to be their Talon. I broke out of their labyrinth and I took the Talon suit with me. I betrayed the Court of Owls, pretty dramatically. I was tasked with ending a government intelligence agency called Spyral that was disrupting the court’s operations; instead I joined them and turned over every scrap of Intel I had on the court. We put a stop to the court’s operations for a whole three years, some families actually lost their membership over it. After that I started doing vigilante work, bringing their shadowy assassin into the light and making it a symbol of hope rather than a symbol of fear. I thought I was doing pretty well until Superwoman, Aunt Kara, showed up and told me I’d drawn the attention of the hero community and I could either join up officially with this team she was putting together or she could take me to jail.”

“And that’s the Justice League?” Bruce asks.

“That’s the Justice League.” Dick confirms. “It’s probably a good thing too, I was on a real crusade against the Owls. I stole eighty billion from them…”

“Eighteen billion!” Bruce’s voice rises. “That…that is a lot.”

“Eigh _ty_ billion not eight _een_ and inside voice.” Dick tells him. “Most of it was in stocks and investments, the suit was a couple million by itself, but none of it was legal so they couldn’t report it and I didn’t know what to do with it, still don’t to be honest. The Justice League helped me figure out where it does the most good, but there’s enough left for this...”

Dick sighs and stands, going to the locked box he used to store the payslips and more sensitive information. He doesn’t bother trying to conceal the combination from Bruce, he probably already knew it, and finds the silver envelope he had hidden there years previously.

“I was saving this for your eighteenth birthday, but you deserve it now.” Dick says as he hands it over.

Bruce’s impassive mask falters when he takes the envelope. He hasn’t searched the box, or if he has he hasn’t checked this envelope. Good. That was one secret he’d managed to keep. Bruce delicately levers the envelope open and pulls out the sheath of documents within.

“It’s Wayne Enterprise’s holdings.” Dick tells him. “It took some doing but I wanted to make sure your inheritance would be yours alone, in case the hit was cover for destroying the company.”

“Thank you.” Bruce says solemnly. “It’s all I have left of them.”

“You have the house.” Dick reminds him. “The deed is in there too. Legally you can’t do anything with it until you’re eighteen but Alfred and I agreed to preserve the property, if you ever want to move back there…”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?” Bruce asks in such a perfect deadpan Dick isn’t sure whether to laugh or not.

“Of course not.” Dick says with a fond smile and ruffles Bruce’s hair. This time Bruce allows it.

“I don’t want to go back to Gotham. I want to stay here with you. I want to _help_.” Bruce says in his most serious voice. “I want to be a hero. Dick, I’m _ready_ to fight at your side. Why would you teach me these things if you didn’t want me to use them to help people?” Bruce asks. “We can be partners.”

“I haven’t been training a partner, I’ve been training a replacement.” Dick says.

“Did you just quote Men in Black while we're fighting?!” Bruce accuses him.

“Not on purpose, I swear!” Dick raises his hands in surrender. “The Justice League isn’t going to be around forever, _I’m_ not going to be around forever. The League agrees we need to make sure there will be heroes to protect the world after us. I trust you to be that hero.”

“But you don’t trust me now.” Bruce folds his arms.

Dick’s silence is as good as answer.

“I can do this!” Bruce raises his voice and the small moment of calm between them passes and Bruce is once again angry and Dick is once again afraid for him.

“You’re just a kid!” Dick raises his voice to match him. “You’re going to get yourself killed the first time someone has a gun!”

“Shut up!” Bruce yells.

“What if they leave you bleeding in some god-forsaken alleyway where I can’t help you?!” Dick yells back.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Bruce screams and throws a punch. Dick ducks under it and slams him to the ground on pure muscle memory. The knife appears in his hand as if by magic and he presses it against Bruce’s throat. Years of training scream at him to _slice_ and the effort of staying his hand makes him grit his teeth.

“Is this what you want? Is it?!” Dick screams back, his fear for Bruce once again turning to anger. “You really want to live in my world?!”

Bruce head-butts him. Dick’s nose crunches and starts to bleed.

“Yes! A thousand times yes!” Bruce says, the movement making the knife cut a thin line of red across his throat. “And if you want to stop me you better cut my throat now!”

Bruce glares up at him and defiantly leans further into the knife. A dribble of red runs down his neck. Bruce continues leaning against it, threatening to cut his own throat if Dick doesn’t remove the knife. The knife disappears as suddenly as it had appeared, leaving only the line of blood on Bruce’s neck to show it existed at all. Dick slowly stands and lets Bruce up. 

“Dick, I am going to do this with or without you.” Bruce says. “No matter what it costs me I am going to find the one who killed them and I am going to make things right. I am not afraid to die.”

“Bruce…” Dick starts to say and Bruce silences him with a look.

All of Dick’s excuses, all his guilt and fear and half-formed apologies shrivel and die in his throat. There is nothing he can say to make this right.

“Don’t follow me.” Bruce orders him and slips out the door and back into the Gotham night. For a moment he is a dark silhouette against the skyline; the city lights shining like every star had fallen from the sky, then the dark swallows him whole and Bruce is gone.

Dick stands still as his emotions battle inside him. The skyline of Gotham looms ahead like the dark teeth of a hungry monster, the buildings blacker than the light polluted sky around them and the lights of streets and windows gleam like clusters of malevolent eyes; the hungry city is calling its lost son home. It was like a Lovecraftian horror than fed on souls, drawing people in and grinding out their suffering to darken the world around it. Dick’s self-doubts and disgust at his actions boils on top of a cocktail of fear for Bruce’s safety and a desire to show the trust in him Bruce was clearly so desperate for.

He wants to keep him safe, all Dick has ever wanted is to keep him safe, but he doesn’t know what to do anymore. No, he knows one thing; he can’t abandon Bruce to the hungry city’s acclaimed lack of mercy. Dick checks all his knives are in place and picks up his mask. He puts it on.

Bruce’s trail is clear for all of five yards before he starts trying to lose Dick and Dick would be wounded by the lack of trust if he wasn’t so desperate to find him. Dick flits from rooftops to alleyways, the trail winding and doubling back on itself as Bruce tries to shake off any pursuit. Even Tim’s facial recognition software is having trouble pulling his image from the cameras. As minutes drag into hours Dick’s fear grows. Gotham was merciless and he doesn’t want to drag Bruce back, he just wants to see he is safe. He is growing more desperate the longer the chase is drawing out and it’s making him careless.

He jumps rooftops with reckless abandon, hurdling satellite dishes and not caring if he is seen by the people below. He leaps for the sheer face of a building without a passing thought for his own safety. His fingers catch around the rusted remains of a fire escape that parts company from the wall with a low groan and he rolls into the muddy alley below.

There, there was the last place Bruce had stood before the trail suddenly goes dead and cold in all directions.

Where the trail ends there is no Bruce, just the print of his boot in the wet black mud, on top of which rest a single white feather. Dick recognizes it.

It doesn’t belong to any bird native to Gotham.

Bubo Scandiacus.

The Snowy Owl.

The Court of Owls has his son.


	13. Under-Gotham

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who have never heard a Barn Owl's scream I present the following link (headphones warning); https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uTu0a1wd9-M

Bruce doesn’t know where he is; it had to be Gotham, somewhere in Gotham, but after he had met the man in the owl mask he had been knocked out. Now he was in darkness. No, he was blind. Whatever they had sedated him with was wearing off but he still couldn’t see.

Cold hands grab him and shove him down against the table. Bruce thrashes like a hooked fish in a sudden panic as a hand grabs him by his hair and forces his head to the side to expose the vein in his neck. He gasps for breath, fighting the panic as much as the doctors, and his eyes rim with tears as he feels a pinch and sting of a needle piercing his jugular vein. The plunger is pressed and Bruce feels his veins fill with ice, the chill spreading out from his chest through his entire body and paralyzing him. He can’t move but he can still _feel_ his limp and unresisting limbs be cuffed to the table. Straps are tightened and locked around each limb and Bruce’s breath catches in his throat at the tiny sound of _something_ metal being picked up from a tray just out of sight.

“It’s time to get you ready.” An unfamiliar voice says and Bruce feels the needle slip into his skin.

Then there is nothing but pain. He can’t move, he can’t scream, he can’t even black-out to escape it. All he can do is lie gasping like a fish dying on a slab. His rage at his own helplessness grows and grows until it is a furious fire barely contained by his skin, and he can taste blood on his tongue as the red mist closes in the entire way and washes his mind away. Then there is nothing but darkness.

Dick prays this is the last time he would have to breathe Gotham’s smoggy night air.

How could he have been so stupid? How he could he have been so selfish? How could he have let them do this?

He had promised, when he first climbed from the labyrinth, when he first pulled himself free of that darkness and stood under the silver light of the moon he had made a _vow_ he wouldn’t let the Owls pull another child into that darkness.

He had failed. He had done more than just fail; he had condemned the one person he had fought the hardest to save to the fate he had been trying to protect him from.

The court always wins.

The words are ringing in his head as he is bought back to his Talon days. It had been the immutable truth of the world at that time. It had been said every time they were given a mission and afterwards when they washed the blood off their knives. The strong devour the weak. You cannot escape the Owls. The court always wins.

The window pane shatters under his boot heels.  The sound is masked by the booming thunder of the storm outside. Dick moves like an oiled shadow, the night itself given form, as he lunges forwards and grabs the Grand Treasurer by the throat. He slams the suited man against the wall and presses a blade to his throat with his other hand.

“Where is he?!” He roars.

The current Grand Treasurer of the Court of Owls looks fearlessly back up at him, even without their mask to hide behind.

“Where else? The labyrinth.” He says and Dick growls.

“If you’re lying to me…” He starts to threaten.

“What would I gain from doing that?” The Grand Treasurer says coolly.

Dick snarls and lets him drop. The Grand Treasurer feels his bruising throat for a moment and stands.

“The court always wins Talon. You know this.” He says and for a brief moment a flash of lightning illuminates the silhouetted shadow of the legendary Bird Man of Gotham then there is nothing. The Grand Treasurer chuckles and leaves to get his own mask, calling in a repairman to replace the window as he does. If their rogue Talon is this worked up it’ll be a show worth seeing…

Dick had promised to himself he would never go back to the marble killing grounds of the Court of Owls. There were too many ghosts in those walls, the ghost of memories of when he had become the Talon.

Stupid, he should have known, he should have thought…Dick grits his teeth behind the cowl.

He dives easily from the rooftops, to the sewers and past them, to the maze of ancient tunnels and forgotten passageways called Under-Gotham by the wretched few who lived here.

He had known the Owls were watching them, they were always watching, _they watch you at your hearth, they watch you at your bed!_ He had gotten complacent. He knew they would be targeting Bruce, so he trained him, without thinking that they would have planned for that too.

How could he have been so blind! He knows that the court had used the circus as a recruitment tool for future Talons, of course they were still watching it, waiting for the moment when he was the most vulnerable. The training he’d given Bruce so he could protect himself from the court had just made him a more tempting target.

He’d been naïve to think he could keep Bruce under control; he was smart enough to know a gilded cage was still a cage and now…

Now the Court of Owls had his son. Part of Dick started to scream as soon as it saw the feather and hasn’t stopped. It’s a low, desperate, mournful kind of feeling. He should be _angry_. If it had been another member of the circus they had taken, if it had been another member of the Justice League, he would be angry enough to tear down the labyrinth with his bare hands. Now he just wants to hug his son and know he was okay.

The light fades as he sinks past the lighted service tunnels into the gloom of the under-city. For a brief second he is a teenager again, fleeing with the water up to his ankles and blood on his hands. He shakes his head to clear the memory from it. He can’t afford to be distracted by the past but he couldn’t escape it either. It was on the air like a poison.

Back into the darkness. Back into his nightmares. Back into the claws of the Owls.

There was an entrance to the labyrinth here. It wasn’t there yesterday and Dick is sure it won’t be there much longer but for now there is a door shaped rectangular hole cut in the marble for him. It has all the appeal of a mousetrap. He walks in anyway and immediately has to duck and roll out of the way of the massive slab of stone that seals off the entrance. It would easier to knock his way through another wall than tunnel through it.

Dick looks up, to where the Owls wait secure behind the bulletproof observation glass, smug in their bone-white masks.

“I have come for my son.” He declares to them.

There is a rustle of whispering as individual groups of Owls take notice of him. Dick wonders how many of them were there when he was still their Talon. They drift over, eager for the show to begin.

The current Grandmaster steps forwards, his mask gleaming and eyes hidden in shadows.

“So, you return Grayson, to our labyrinth, to our judgement.” He says solemnly. “Talon, you know the purpose of the labyrinth.”

“Go choke on a mouse, I’m not your Talon anymore!” Dick snarls.

There is a sound in the distance but drawing closer, a sound not unlike the scream of a Barn Owl but louder and angrier and recognizably human.

“No.” The Grandmaster says. “You’re not. He is. Or he will be once he brings us your head.”

He strides closer to the glass.

“The Court of Owls thanks you for your due diligence in training your successor.” He says, his tone filled with venom. “He promises to be a useful Talon. We took some liberties in finishing his education, Venom is a useful drug, but really, the credit is yours.”

Dick’s blood runs cold but he tries to keep it from his face.

“You took Bruce to be your Talon.” He snarls. “How could you? He’s a Wayne, from one of Gotham’s oldest wealthy families, like you!”

“His bloodline is disgraced.” The Grandmaster hisses. “His parents turned on the court. They betrayed Gotham and now their child will serve in their place. It will be their punishment, just as your death at his hands will be yours.”

“I won’t fight him.” Dick stands up straighter to stare the Grandmaster down.

“Then he will kill you.” The Grandmaster states simply. “He came to us, Richard Grayson, for what you could not give him.” The Grandmaster laughs. “He agreed to serve as Talon of his own free will.”

“He wouldn’t…” Dick says in a hushed whisper.

“He pledged himself to the service of the court and all he asked in return was to be permitted to kill the one we used to remove his parents. My, he did not disappoint. The boy is a merciless killer. You should be proud.” The Grandmaster says.

It was the scream, it had caught him off guard. It was so long and loud and full of inhuman rage that he hadn’t thought the one who made it could still be stealthy. The weight collides heavily with his back and the blade of a knife is driven into his shoulder. Stupid, owls fly silently, the memory of Dick’s teacher the former Talon reminds him. The familiar sight of blood speckling the marble brings the memories to the surface, the memory of the time he was the one pinning the last Talon to the ground.

“Richard Grayson.” The voice is rougher but still Bruce’s, saying the last words he wanted to hear from him. “The Court of Owls has sentenced you-”

Bruce isn’t expecting the blow to come from the side he stabbed and it connects solidly with his face, knocking him over. Dick immediately springs to his feet and pulls the knife from his shoulder. Its handle is owl-headed, the spine of the blade marked with feather like grooves already filled with his blood.

“You are so grounded mister!” He growls.

“To die!” Bruce spits out the last words as he lurches to his feet. Dick hardly recognizes him past the black uniform of the Talon.

If Dick didn’t know him so well it would be hard to guess he was a boy of fifteen; he’s bulkier, faster and stronger than any fifteen-year-old had a right to be, like he had gone through ten years of growth in a night. Dick can tell by sight alone they’ve improved the Talon suit; Bruce is better armoured than him and his weapons sharper. The face mask is a solid plate of black metal with eyes like empty pits. When he snarls the beak of the mask opens enough for Dick to see teeth gleam past the razor-sharp metal.

The memory of the last time he had been in this labyrinth is sharp in his mind; it had been him and the last Talon. They had fought just like this, with the Owls watching from above, as he had held down the Richard he had been named for and cut his throat.

Bruce screams again, a sound of pure feral rage that shouldn’t be coming from a human mouth. It’s brutally angry but also animal; unhinged and unthinking.

The feel of marble under his feet is familiar as Dick runs. How many times had he been back here in his nightmares? Too many. He hasn’t drunk the water so his senses should be clear but he doesn’t know if Bruce has. Stimulants and hallucinogens were a dangerous mix.

Bruce slams against the wall with a grunt, his footing slipping as he struggles to his feet. His reaction time is much slower than the Bruce he knew.

“H…H…” Bruce gasps and his breath catches in his throat.

Dick realizes he’s trying to ask for help. He’s resisting, fighting the drug in his system the best he could and it was making him clumsy. His son was still in there and he didn’t want to hurt him.

Dick almost cries with relief.

The marble cracks under Bruce’s bladed fingers as he grips the column, his breath ragged even though they haven’t gone very far. Dick can’t see the eyes beneath the owl-mask of the Talon but he wonders if Bruce is crying.

“I don’t want to fight you Bruce.” He says softly.

“The strong… _eat_ …the weak!” Bruce hisses and charges him.

It’s a remarkably straight-forward manoeuvre and Dick already has one of his blades out when Bruce leaps into the air and off the wall to lunge at his injured shoulder. Knife meets knife with a brief shower of sparks and Bruce puts all his increased body weight behind the blow. The blades slide off each other and Bruce follows up with a hard punch. Dick slides a few feet back on the slick marble.

If he had been an ordinary man Bruce would already be cleaning off his blades, but for a fight of succession between Talons it is tame. The watching court must be disappointed in them both. Good.

Dick steps back, making a show of protecting his injured shoulder. Bruce steps forwards, keeping pace with a blade in each hand.

“You can’t run from me.” He says.

“Bruce…” Dick says softly.

“I’m Talon now!” Bruce says and screams the raw-throated scream again and Traveler's tongue, that sound is heart-breaking. Dick knows that Bruce had so much anger bubbling up from inside him, but to see it come to the surface in such an ugly way hurts him more than the knife had.

“Bruce, you don’t want to do this…” Dick continues to speak calmly to him, hoping to get through to the person underneath whatever the court has done to him.

“Wrong!” Bruce hisses as he closes the distance. “You…always…lie!”

Dick feels a chill run down his spine.

“Bruce…” His voice falters.

“You always lied to me!” Bruce’s voice gets louder and his teeth bare in a hateful snarl. “You lied to me about my parents! You lied to me about the court! You lied to me about who you are!”

“All I wanted was to protect you…” Dick starts to say and his feet bump into the fountain.

“I don’t need you to protect me!” Bruce screams. “I needed you to trust me!” He manages to drive a knee into Dick’s midriff. “To help me!” He grabs Dick by the hair and shoves his head into the fountain. “All you gave me was lies!” He holds it there until the bubbles and struggling stops then flings him back to the marble floor.

“My court, how do you wish him to die?” Bruce asks.

The words are more bitter than the taste of the drugged water.

Dick tries to focus as there are whispers from above.

The Grandmaster steps forwards.

“Take his head.” He orders.

Bruce turns towards him, his eyes hidden behind the shining lenses. He walks slowly, deliberately, and Dick smiles. Was he just impatient or did Bruce really forget how long he can hold his breath? He grabs Bruce’s ankle and tugs. Bruce slips over onto his back.

“And you’re supposed to be the court’s elite killer?” Dick says teasingly and Bruce snarls.

“I’ll rip you apart!” He growls as he struggles to get to his feet.

“You have to catch me first.” Dick says teasingly and does a handstand as he flips backwards, away from the fountain.

He runs.

The water of the fountain was heavily drugged and he couldn’t escape swallowing some of it. Even with the hallucinogen he knew the labyrinth better than Bruce. He had fought here, he had killed here so often its beguiling passageways were burned into his memory. Bruce can’t have spent more than a day maximum within its walls. As a Talon he was vastly outmatched; the court are using Bruce as a test of his resolve not to kill. No matter who dies here they win.

“You can’t run forever.” Bruce calls after him. “You’ll have to fight me some time.”

By the Traveler's tongue, they could almost be playing that Hide and Seek/Tag hybrid the circus kids were so fond of. If he doesn’t concentrate he can see the trailers of the circus pressing through the walls like the marble was plastic wrap.

“You can’t outrun me.” Bruce says as he continues to give chase. “You have to know you’ll tire before I do.”

“Go on thinking that if it makes you feel better.” Dick says with a smile as he dances out of the way of a flung knife.

Bruce pulls the blade from the wall and returns the smile, only his is savage with barred bloody teeth.

“Fine. Die tired.” He growls and gives chase.

They run the labyrinth together.

Neither one of them were the kind of rats that usually ran this maze, neither one of them were lost, afraid, _ordinary_ people. If he had been Bruce would have shredded him like a bad-tempered blender. He’s angry enough and there is blood drying against the dark metal of his gauntlets. Dick doesn’t have time to mourn what the court has done to him. If he lets Bruce get too close that anger might let him make good on the promise to dismember him. Whatever they've done to him Bruce is feral, the effects of the drug in his system driving him towards greater acts of violence and making it harder for him to control himself. Dick isn’t looking for an exit; he’s just looking to stay a step ahead of Bruce as the court’s new Talon grew more and more frustrated at their game.

‘All the world will be your enemy, Prince with a Thousand Enemies, and when they catch you, they will kill you, but first they must catch you.’ He had read that book with Bruce when they had been younger…

There are no words between them now, no threats and no jokes, just the two of them and a deadly game of hide and seek. They slip through the shadows with barely a whisper, like some perverse test of everything Bruce has been trained in. With each swing of the knife that nearly grazes him, each ambush and counter ambush calmly executed as a game of chess, Dick realizes that all these years he _has_ been training Bruce to be a Talon. It was what he knew, he had thought he was keeping Bruce safe, but that was no excuse. This trap was of his own making.

It’s almost a relief when his luck runs out and he’s forced into combat. No time to think about anything other than not getting stabbed. Bruce is a good brawler, and he has Jason to blame for that. Jason was always a pragmatist when it came to combat and, thanks to Venom, Bruce has an advantage. He doesn’t seem to feel pain, he’s angry enough to want to cause maximum damage and fights dirty at every opportunity. Dick gets a few good hits in but they have as much impact as punching a raging bull. Even in a life-or-death struggle he can’t bring himself to hurt Bruce.

His back hits the marble. One of the lenses of the mask has shattered and Dick can see Bruce’s eye, the pupil unnaturally dilated, fixated on him.

“Why won’t you fight me?” The Talon snarls. “I’m going to _kill_ you Dick and you still won’t fight me seriously. What is the _point_ of it? Running around like we’re playing some kind of _game_? Were you hoping I’d get sentimental enough not to kill you?”

He bares his teeth. Even in his time as Talon Dick had never considered biting someone to death but there is blood glinting on the bladed beak of the mask.

“This is the _labyrinth_ Dick. What could you possibly hope to achieve by running?” Bruce asks as a blade slips into his free hand. A dull thud sounds from the other side of the labyrinth and the Owls twitter in confusion as they turn towards it.

Dick smiles with his blood smeared across his teeth.

“I haven’t been running. I’ve been stalling.” He says. “You didn’t think I’d come alone did you?”

A boom of exploding stone rumbles across the maze as part of it blows inwards and fills the air with a billowing cloud of white dust.

Heat vision gleams a bloody red off the rising dust and Dick feels a jolt of surprise. Conner and Kara have both come. The hovering silhouettes of two Kryptonians (or is it one and a half) form a menacing flank to the ground force ploughing through the marble like it was rice paper.

He had put out an SOS for anyone that could help him save Bruce; he was expecting maybe two leaguers would be free to help out. He had vastly underestimated just how much Bruce’s extended family would want him back. A flash of golden lightning flashes its way along the labyrinth; Wally finding a path for them. Jason riddles the observation glass with bullets and, though none of them penetrate, the Owls scatter. Dick would scold him for using live ammunition but if he’s anywhere near as angry as Dick thinks, the Owls are lucky they made the glass bulletproof. Donna brushes the walls out of her way like cobwebs.

Bruce screams the raw throated barn owl scream as he crouches over Dick like a predator guarding a kill. Now it has a note of desperation in it as he struggles to keep track of so many targets, unsure of which one is the greatest threat to him. It is still a feral sound but now it also sounds…lost. Dick reaches up and grabs Bruce’s wrist.

“It’s over Bruce.” He tells him. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

Bruce hesitates, baring his teeth in an uncertain snarl. He’s afraid, like a cornered animal. Dick grabs him and pulls him in close into a tight hug. He doesn’t flinch when Bruce drives the bladed beak deep into his shoulder on terrified instinct.

“I’m here.” He repeats even as a Kryptonian fist descends and knocks the Talon out with clinical precision.

Dick raises a hand in a clear signal to get Conner to stop and cradles his son against his chest as he stands. His blood speckles the marble. Conner’s eyes widen, the red glow leaving them entirely as he gets a read on the situation.

“Rao, is that…?” He starts to say and Dick nods in confirmation. “What did they do to him?”

“A drug, I haven’t heard of it.” Dick explains. “Wally, the Owls?”

“Gone.” The speedster confirms, dashing to their side in less than a heartbeat.

“Ran like rats.” Jason confirms with a deep satisfaction to his voice. “Lucky for them.”

“Do you want me to pursue?” Donna asks and Dick shakes his head.

“Even if you caught them their international agents would free them.” He explains. “They would have destroyed the evidence the second you breached the walls but we’ve done a lot of damage to them already. They’ll be going into hiding while they recover.”

Donna doesn’t look entirely comfortable with there being no-one for her to fight but Dick knows it is just the situation putting her on edge.

“Wally, Kara, search the place.” Dick orders them. “Whatever they did to Bruce, they’d want to keep it as close to the maze as possible.”

Wally nods and disappears in a flash of golden light, Kara joins him in a similar streak of red and blue.

Dick carefully pulls the mask of the Talon from Bruce’s face. The bladed beak sticks in his shoulder and he has to worm the blade free. When it does pull free Bruce could almost be sleeping if it wasn’t for the smear of blood running across his face.

Conner pulls the cape from his shoulders and offers it to Dick. Dick covers Bruce with the cape like a shock blanket. The rich red of the Kryptonian cloth just highlights how pale Bruce’s skin was against the black of the Talon’s uniform.

“Shit kid, what did they do to you?” Jason swears under his breath and runs his fingers through Bruce’s hair.

“They said it was Venom, heard of it?” Dick asks him.

“I’ve heard of that stuff, it will mess you up.” Jason whistles and checks Bruce’s pulse. “Dick, check this out.”

Dick tests Bruce’s pulse too; it is practically humming. His veins are pulsing in time with it as his heart hammers.

“Looks like they pushed him to the brink of overdose. He’s lucky his brains haven’t dripped out his nose.” Jason says. “You’ve got a long, painful detox ahead of you little soldier.” He pats Bruce’s hair sympathetically.

“You’ve had experience with it?” Dick asks him.

Jason scowls.

“Not _personally_ Grayson.” He points out. “But I keep an eye on the toxicology scene in Gotham just because all sorts of weird and dangerous things come out of there. Venom’s a super steroid but it causes suggestibility and increases hostility and aggression, all while creating a dependency. He’s had one shot, a pretty potent one, but just the one. My diagnosis is a week in isolation should flush it from his system but there’s going to be permanent side effects. Addiction won’t be a factor unless he gets another shot but there will be an increased vulnerability to it in the future and the physical side won’t just revert.”

Jason sighs.

“Let me say, I told you so never felt so shitty.”

Dick winces but is spared from having to comment as Wally and Kara return, carrying half a med lab’s worth of equipment between them.

“We took everything that looked relevant.” Wally explains, his voice just a bit too fast and frantic to be easily understood. He’s panicking.

Dick nods.

“Good thinking, we need to reverse engineer this stuff as quickly as possible.” He says.

Wally flashes him a quick smile of gratitude. He shuffles from foot to foot nervously.

“T-There’s something else.” He stutters.

Dick fixes him with a firm, reassuring look.

“What is it Wally?” He asks.

Wally takes a deep breath.

“There was a room back there, near the operation theatre.” He starts to say, the words coming out too fast in his nervousness. “It’s an abattoir, nothing but chunky salsa left, but it looks like…like someone got _dismantled_ and there’s claw marks and, and, is he going to be _okay_?”  He asks in the special hushed tone where okay meant mentally stable.

“Our resident toxicology specialist seems to think so.” Dick says looking at Jason.

Jason looks embarrassed.

“Yeah, but don’t get too used to it. I may be an auxiliary but I’ve got no interest in joining the Justice League full time. I’m just here for the kid.” He says defensively.

“We all know how much you treasure your status as a lone wolf Jason.” Donna rolls her eyes.

“I’m a free agent for a reason Amazon. I don’t play well with others.” Jason's smile shows too much tooth to be reassuring.

Kara cuts off the argument with a raised hand. As the one who had formed the team in the first place she commanded a good deal of respect from the younger and less experienced heroes.

“Dick, he was _attacking_ you.” Kara points out as she takes in the state of his shoulder. It’s the same one Bruce had stabbed from behind and is definitely in need of medical attention. He can no longer move his fingers, though the rest of the arm pulses with pain.

“Had to make it look real to the peanut gallery.” Dick promptly replies but he can tell by the look in Kara’s eyes she doesn’t entirely believe him. She must have seen Bruce bite him. He sighs. “Alright, it looks like Bruce had more anger issues than I thought; we’re going to have a proper heart to heart while he’s detoxing.”

“Dick, he is _dangerous_.” Kara says with a warning gleam of red sparking in her eyes. “He’s killed.”

“He is my _son_ Kara.” Dick growls back, his arms tighten around Bruce’s shoulders.

There is a moment where they both stare each other down. They’re both practically parents worried for the safety of their charges. Conner, ever the peacemaker, steps between them and breaks the tension.

Kara’s been a close friend for a long time, she had been raising her cousin Kal longer than he had been raising Bruce and had given him valuable advice on raising a teenage boy (though dealing with a child that could fly and dealing with one that would leap on you from high places screaming ‘constant vigilance!’ were two separate challenges). He doesn’t want to fight her, not just because she was an experienced Kryptonian warrior, but because she was his friend.

“It’s my fault.” Dick says quietly, looking down at the curled body still too small in his arms. “All of this is my fault Kara.”

The red fades entirely from Kara’s eyes.

For all her dedication to the sacred mission to protect her charge given to her from a world long dead, she was still Bruce’s Aunt Kara and the thought of having to execute him to protect Kal hurt her. Dick wonders if she’s thinking of what it would be like to hold Kal in her arms, knowing he’s killed. She would still love him. Even with blood on his hands she would still love him.

“What are you going to do Dick?” She asks.

“Isolate him.” Dick says immediately. “I’m going to get him through detox, talk to him and make sure none of the drug’s effects are permanent.”

“And the chunky salsa room?” Wally blurts out.

“That…That is permanent.” Dick sighs and looks down at the fifteen-year-old boy he holds as close as if he were eight years old again. “I have an…acquaintance.” He says and it is so very rare for him not to call them a friend. “Someone who helped me when I was his age, when I was the Talon.” Just saying the words Dick feels like he’s been punched in the gut. He can’t breathe. “When I was Talon.” He repeats in a daze and he feels the darkness threatening to close in on him because even if they caught all the Owls and made them stand trial for what they’d committed, hell, even if he strung them up by their neck to gasp their last like a brace of pheasants, he has still failed.

He has failed to protect his son.

The Owls have won and there is nothing he can do to change that.


	14. Gotham Campgrounds

Dick buys a new trailer for Bruce, why not, he can afford it. The Owls won’t be following up on his purchases like they usually did and he wants to keep the circus as far out of this as possible. He is going to have a lot to explain when they return.

It’s unfurnished; plain sheet metal walls with nothing more than a toilet and a flat slab for a bed. Dick tries not to think ‘prison cell’ but that’s what it is. It’s a prison cell of plastic and sheet metal.

He had a breakdown in the labyrinth and Kara had to cover him with her cape. Dick wonders if it is some special property of the alien cloth that makes it so comforting, if it’s just become an association in the collective unconscious from years of news footage of the Kryptonians, or if he’s just being childish enough to want a damn blanket.

If he had been in front of the cameras instead of his friends, his standing as a hero probably would have taken a hit. As it was his friends were understanding enough about trauma to give him space to breathe while he fought off a panic attack.

Bruce stirs before they reach the campgrounds. It’s never going to stop amazing Dick how hands that could crumple steel, shatter diamond, even make gods bleed could be so gentle as to knock someone out like switching off a light. Bruce doesn’t wake and Dick’s not sure if he’s fallen asleep or if he’s pretending for Dick’s benefit. He hasn’t gotten to hold Bruce like this in years, the grouchy teenager wouldn’t appreciate it, but he holds Bruce as if there was some way he could use his own body to shield him from the cruelties of this world.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers to him. “I'm sorry.”

He carries Bruce across the empty campground in the dark. The sky is an ugly bruise, deep mottled purple clouds shot with scarlet veins that threaten sunrise. The trailer stands as an island of metal against the bare dry earth of the empty lot. Its doorway is a gasping black void, like a hole in a metal tooth.

Dick brushes back Bruce’s fringe to place a tender kiss to his forehead as he lays the boy down on the plastic slab of a bed. It is strange how someone pumped full of steroids can still look so small. His little boy, grown up far too fast. His breath catches in his throat and his eyes prickle at the thought. He reaches out a trembling hand and strokes it through Bruce’s hair.

Dick wishes he could curl up beside him and comfort him like he was the ten-year-old boy swearing revenge, or the eight-year-old sobbing after a nightmare. He can’t as much as he wants to; Bruce needed to detox and that meant he couldn’t stay to comfort him. It would lead to a fight, a physical one this time, and his shoulder couldn’t take any more punishment without healing wrong.

Jason had bought them all the supplies they will need for the week by his usual method of stealing them and leaving cash behind; stacks of pre-packaged rations, bottles of water and camping gear fill one corner of the trailer.

Dick takes one of the blankets from the pile and tucks it around Bruce’s sleeping form. A memory of watching over Bruce sleeping as a child stabs at his heart. He doesn’t want to leave…

He does and locks the door behind him. A week in isolation begins now.

The purple sky looms overheard like an omen; day is coming. The night had passed and with it the deep exhaustion he had been suppressing had started to seep back into his limbs. Tiredness drags on him, digging its tiny claws into his shoulders and dragging him down, down, down into the fuzzy daze of a sleep too exhausted for dreams.

A knock on the metal wall shocks Dick awake. His limbs are aching from a mix of exertion and falling asleep against the wall of the trailer. He jolts and winces, clenching his teeth against the pain as a bolt of agony runs through his abused shoulder. Dark drops of blood have dried around the tear in his armor, the dried blood clotting the wound cracks when he moves and a thin trickle of red drips from it. Dick flinches. It is the same shoulder he had fractured saving Bruce from falling. He wonders if that was deliberate. He winces and breaks the crust, cleaning out the wounds with his field disinfectant kit and dressing it as best he can with one arm. He will have to worry about repairing the armor later.

He looks up and judges the angle of the angle of the sun on the horizon to work out the time. Seven in the morning. The morning sun streams down on his face. He lets his head hang back to feel the warmth of it. It feels like an eternity since he had last sat in his suit with the sun on his face. Some owls would hunt by day if they could get away with it, and the feel of sun on the suit seems to wash away the darkness that clung to his skin and with it the memories of the night. He breathes out slowly and his heart is still. It is just the two of them, alone in the daylight, and they were _safe._

A few wildflowers had sprung up from the bare dusty ground, weeds technically, but the bright jade green of their leaves and the bursts of color that was their pink and purple blooms are still beautiful. The air hums with the sound of the golden bodied bumblebees flitting from flower to flower. Cars rumble in the distance; the air is still and filled with the faint smells of exhaust fumes, pavements and dry dust.

The League’s eyes would be on them, from the Watchtower if nothing else. They probably had one of the Supers keeping an ear out, plus Dick’s own assassin instincts were highly trained. They were safe for now. They had to be. He leans back against the wall of the trailer, aware that the thin metal skin of it wasn’t the best soundproofing.

Bruce is awake. He feels his heart twinge, part fear, part grief, part deep dread for the conversation he is going to have to have. He had made a thorough investigation of the crime scene and sent some samples with Wally for testing. The DNA match was positive; the body in the room had formerly been that of Joseph Chill. The Court had drugged his son, forced the chemicals into him until he had nearly died from overdose, then locked him in a small room with his parents’ killer. Dick was glad it had only been _one_ body; it had been minced so fine it was hard to tell except by weight.

Dismantled was the word Wally had used to describe the corpse and on seeing it Dick had to agree. The body hadn’t just been dismembered; it had been methodically disassembled like a lab dissection, then each individual part shredded into as fine a paste as possible, just to make sure the body was completely destroyed. They were going to have to bury the man in a jar and not a big jar. There were claw marks in the concrete walls that matched the new Talon suit’s bladed gauntlets, and even a few that matched the bladed beak. How angry must Bruce have been to tear someone apart until there was nothing left to tear?

Dick had always known about the rage that boiled under Bruce’s skin, he had seen it in Jason, in Damian, and in his own eyes when he looked in the mirror. The Court had taken that rage and they had turned his son into a killer, his only son, the child he had sworn to protect. Dick tastes tears in the back of his throat. It was his fault. He had failed Bruce. He had allowed this to happen to him and that could never be undone.

Dick leans back against the trailer’s wall.

“How do you feel?” He asks as he closes his eyes and focuses on the sunlight. His voice isn’t loud but the walls aren’t thick and he knows Bruce will be able to hear him.

“Like death.” Bruce rasps and his voice is hoarse from screaming. Dick is sure he must have one hell of a sore throat.

“It’s going to get worse before it gets better.” Dick tells him.

“Aegrescit medendo.” Bruce dryly quotes a Latin proverb. The remedy is worse than the disease. It meant action taken to put something right is often more unpleasant or damaging than the original problem.

“Extremis malis extrema remedia.” Dick quotes back in the same language. Extreme ills have extreme remedies. Bruce had taken some his father’s old medicine books from the Manor and shared them with him; they were littered with various Latin phrases that Bruce would translate for him. “Jason says it will be a week before the drug is fully purged from your system and an unpleasant week at that.”

“Any side effects?” Bruce asks him, as casually as if they were discussing the possibility of rain on the weekend.

“Some.” Dick says, and thinking of them makes his stomach churn.

Jason had sent him some files on Venom; the sense of power the drug gave a user was incredible and with the agony of withdrawal meant the user would soon do anything for their next dose. Gotham mob bosses used it to get easy muscle. Dick could picture Bruce, eyes as dull as the victims in the pictures, kept in the Labyrinth like a Greek monster, killing for the Court in exchange for his next fix to keep his mind dulled to the world. Nothing would be left of him.

“Your body essentially went through ten years of growth in a day; it won’t just revert but the chemical imbalance is going to hurt and you’re going to need to eat extra to replace the lost energy.” Dick explains to him.

“I’m sure I’ll grow into it.” Bruce says drily and Dick can picture the face he must be making; the careful blankness of expression that means it takes time for someone unfamiliar with it to understand he was messing with them.

“Gosh, I hope not.” Dick teases. “If you get any stronger you’ll end up bench-pressing me.”

“Just a few reps.” Bruce teases back then pauses and his tone becomes something more serious. “Everything hurts. A lot.” He confesses with his voice rough and Dick’s heart aches.

“All over muscle strain.” Dick tells him. “The Owls have spent years working on a chemical formula to preserve their Talons eternally for future service; if the shot you got is anything like the one they gave me you can expect a painful adjustment period, so no bench-pressing your elders just yet.”

He hears Bruce lean against the other side of the wall beside him and sigh.

“So that happened.” He says in his bleached-dead tone.

“It did.” Dick doesn’t know what else he can say.

A long silence stretches between them, filled with the distant rumble of cars and the humming of bees. Dick opens his mouth but he doesn’t know what to say. What can you say in this situation? Where do you begin? He closes his mouth again.

Bruce is the one who breaks the silence, quietly, as if he is afraid to kill this moment of peace between them.

“They came to save me.” Bruce says softly. He sounds like he is about to start crying. “I didn’t think anyone would…” His voice cracks and he stops talking.

Dick puts a hand against the trailer wall and wishes he could hug him.

“Bruce, they’re your family.” Dick replies. “Of course they would! Everyone was worried about you, Kara, Jason, Wally, everyone!”

The silence draws on, thick and oppressive. Not for the first time Dick wishes he had some way to tell what Bruce was thinking. He doesn’t know if what he is saying is what Bruce needs to hear. He wishes he knew what it was Bruce needed to hear. He had thought he knew Bruce pretty well; he had been wrong.

“Tim couldn’t make it in person; he said Jason has the ‘regular dude who knows some martial arts’ demographic covered for a rescue operation.” Dick says to break the silence. “But he did do some online techno-wizardry and let me tell you, the Owls are going to be too busy with him to worry about anything we do. You’re safe now.”

“I don’t want Tim to get hurt because of me.” Bruce says. Dick can tell he’s frowning.

“Tim antagonizes the League of Shadows for fun, he’ll be fine. Can’t say the same for the Owls.” Dick informs him.

A long silence follows but this time Dick knows what needs to be said. He takes a deep breath.

“Bruce, back there in the labyrinth…You knew I was stalling right?” Dick asks him.

There is a long silence from the other side of the wall.

“Yes…” Bruce says quietly. “I knew you were stalling. I was stalling too, I didn’t want the court to win.”

Dick sighs in relief. It’s a massive weight off his shoulders knowing that Bruce realized he was buying time and chose to follow Dick’s plan rather than warn the court. While part of him knows that Bruce’s anger is justified it is still chilling to think that Bruce could have beaten him to death in the labyrinth and Dick would have let him. Still…Dick knows he can’t blame everything that happened there on the drugs. The things Bruce had said in the Labyrinth, part of him had meant them.

“They said I would be able to get justice as the Talon. I thought that as long as I could kill the one who took them from me, it would be okay for me to die. I thought I didn’t care what they did to me afterwards, but…I didn’t want to hurt you Dick.” Bruce’s voice falters. “I didn’t care if I died and I still didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Bruce…” Dick says softly.

“I’m sorry.” Bruce says and Dick hears him sob. “I’m sorry. I killed someone Dick.” Bruce says softly. “I wanted to and I did it. I _enjoyed_ it.”

Dick breathes out. This is what he was afraid of.

“I was so angry. The drug, it, it just let out what was always inside.” Bruce quietly says. “I killed him.” Bruce whispers. “It felt good when I did but now, I just feel hollow.”

“It didn’t bring them back.” Dick says and a long silence tells him he has hit the nail on the head.

There is a soft sigh as Bruce changes position.

“…Do you hate me Dick?” Bruce asks him.

“Because you killed someone?” Dick asks back. “No. I hate myself for letting it happen.”

Dick leans back against the wall of the trailer.

“I wanted to defend you, I wanted to keep you safe. I should have asked myself what you wanted.” He confesses. “I saw you were angry, I saw you were restless and I did nothing.” Dick tightens his hands into fists. “I did nothing.” He grits his teeth. “Bruce, can you ever forgive me?”

There is a small sound Dick recognizes. Bruce has started to cry.

“I’m so messed up.” Bruce half-sobs, half-laughs.

“Me too buddy. Me too.” Dick says and rests his head against the wall.

The sobbing turns into a retching and Dick winces as Bruce vomits. From what he heard from Jason Venom detox was one of the most painful things on the planet, by the end of it Bruce would be little more than a wild animal, but Dick was determined to stay with him for as long as it took.

“I _hate_ this.” Bruce half-sobs, half-retches.

“I know buddy, I know.” Dick sighs. “It sucks, but I’m here for you.”

“I’m sorry.” Bruce sobs. “I’m sorry. I don’t…I don’t want to die anymore.” Bruce says, and despite himself his voice shakes. He breaks down.

It is a long time before Bruce can speak again without great retching sobs interrupting his words. The sun is nearly overhead before he gathers himself enough to talk as normal. Mood swings were part of the side-effects of withdrawal and it's a particularly bad burst of depression to leave Bruce sobbing and speechless.

Dick rests a palm on the trailer wall and hums a few lullabies; the tunes he would use to calm Bruce down after a nightmare. He wishes he could hold him. Bruce’s sobbing shudders to a stop. He puts a hand against the trailer wall.

“Dick…are you still there?” He asks. His voice is croaking but steady.

“I’m here Buddy. I am always going to be here.” Dick tells him.

Bruce pauses and takes a deep breath as another burst of tears threatens to overwhelm him. He fights past it; this is too important.

“The Owls wanted me to be what you wouldn't be, an assassin and their puppet, but they were wrong Dick. They underestimated both of us.” He tells Dick. “They thought I would be their tool without questioning but I never promised to obey them. I promised I’d bring justice and that’s what I am going to do.”

There is a pause as Bruce draws in a long breath and steadies himself. His voice is shaking, talking must be hurting and he wants to stop and close himself off again, but he is pushing himself to keep going.

“You took the Talon, their assassin in the shadows and you turned it into something that brings people hope. I have to do the same.” He tells Dick.

Bruce rests his head against the trailer wall with a soft ‘thunk’.

“I saw an omen in the Labyrinth.” He says. “A vision came to me of the path I must take. Dick...I must become a bat.”

“Fruit bat or vampire bat?” Dick asks immediately.

“Just a bat.” Dick can almost _hear_ Bruce’s frown as he speaks.

“Alright then Just Bat.” Dick starts to say.

“Dick!” Bruce groans. “I’m being serious.”

“Hi serious…” Dick says with a grin.

“Finish that overplayed line and I’m going to dump my puke bucket on you.” Bruce threatens.

“Some things never change.” Dick says with a smile.

“Some things are going to have to.” Bruce adds darkly.

“No more lies.” Dick tells him. “Even if I think you can’t handle it, no more lies.”

“No more lies.” Bruce agrees and Dick feels a contract is being sealed.

It’s actually a relief. There is another pause as Bruce works out what he wants to say.

“I heard what they said about my parents. Did you know the court were the ones that ordered them killed?” He asks and his voice is distant. He’s probably disassociating.

This time the pause is on Dick’s end as he takes a deep breath. No lies, he had promised no lies, no matter how hard it was. No matter how much this hurt him he had to tell the truth.

“Yes.”

Another long silence follows this confession.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Bruce asks, there is no blame in his voice only a detached curiosity.

“If I did I knew you’d go after them.” Dick says. “And if you did I would lose you too. Bruce, I’m sorry, I should have trusted you.”

There is another long pause in which the words 'yes you should have' go unsaid.

“You killed for them.” Bruce states. “When you were my age, you killed for the Owls.”

“Yes. Yes I did.” There wasn’t a thing Dick regretted more than his blood-soaked past as the court’s Talon, but exposing Bruce to them is building to be a close second.

“If, if you were still their Talon would you have…?” Bruce starts to ask and Dick closes his eyes.

“I’m not their Talon Bruce. I rejected the path the court chose for me. I wouldn’t have killed your parents. If I did it wouldn’t be me.” Dick says.

More silence.

Bruce sighs and Dick hears a quiet groan of flexing metal as he leans back against the wall.

“What happens to me now?” Bruce asks him with a careful blankness of tone, aware of the blood literally on his hands. He has killed someone; it would be within Dick’s jurisdiction to take him to jail if he wished.

“You stay in that trailer for a week until the drug’s out of your system.” Dick says. “Non-negotiable. You’re grounded after all.”

There is a brief pause as Dick steels himself, knowing that this answer will not satisfy Bruce but that what he has to say next will bare more of his past than he feels comfortable with. No more lies; it would only hurt them both. Aegrescit medendo.

“Then you’ll meet the League of Shadows.” Dick says.

“This being the same group Tim enjoys antagonizing?” Bruce says with an unerring ear for detail.

Dick purses his lips.

“Tim and League of Shadows…do not get along.” He makes an understatement. “In fact, it would not be an exaggeration to say they hate each other. A lot. There was some mutual manipulation of each other that has led to a distrust in all future dealings. The League of Shadows is an elite order; they call themselves anti-heroes, most call them assassins.” Dick tells him. “They serve to watch over and protect humanity by defending those that improve humanity and culling those that weaken it. Tim didn’t agree with their policies.”

He hears the wordless question in the silence that follows but needs a moment to brace himself. Talking around his past always felt like digging a fresh blade into an old wound.

“When I abandoned the court, I knew they would hunt down and destroy their rogue Talon.” Dick says. “I sought a teacher who could teach me to surpass all previous Talons. I found Nanda Parbat and there I found the League of Shadows.”

He leans back against the wall as he remembers the history of the group.

“The original group was led by Ra’s Al Ghul but following his demise at the hands of his son and heir the organization split into two factions.” He counts them off on his fingers. “Firstly, the League of Assassins led by Ra’s daughter Talia Al Ghul. They follow the path set down by her father; that this world must be cleansed in fire and the survivors shepherded by her will. She is a dangerous, cunning enemy you need to stay far, far away from.”

He gives Bruce a warning and hopes that for once he heeds it.

“The second is the League of Shadows led by Talia’s brother and Ra’s killer, Hafid Al Ghul. At the time I knew him he had taken the name Damian; it was the name given to him by his mother before he was torn from her arms by his father. He was originally bred to be nothing more than a fresh vessel for his father’s soul but Ra’s underestimated the strength of his son when he attempted to merge. Ra’s was the one taken over.” He explains to Bruce. “Damian is the one who can teach you to become a bat.”

Silence from Bruce; he is contemplating.

“Damian’s methods are often…barbaric.” Dick confesses with a sour twist to his mouth. “But he is the best teacher I have ever known and he respects the individual’s right to choose their own path. The training will be brutal but if anyone can teach you what you need it will be him.”

“Dick…Do you really…?” Bruce starts to say.

“Yes. I trust you to make your own decisions. Go and train with them, learn what I can’t teach you.” Dick replies, finishing the sentence. “Whatever path you wish to follow in the end it is your choice to make, not mine.”

There is another long silence from the other side of the trailer, so long Dick is wondering he had offended Bruce somehow or if the teen had just fallen asleep.

“Dick, please don’t go.” Bruce whispers. Dick can hear the fear heavy in his voice. “J-Just for this week, don’t leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere Bruce.” Dick tells him. “I’m here for you. Until the very end I’m here for you.” He lays his hand against the cool metal of the trailer wall. It doesn’t help.


	15. Robinson Park

The next week is hell on them both.

Dick sleeps in fits and bursts, curled up on the bare ground outside the trailer like a loyal dog, and eats even less frequently. He had weathered worse in his career and the trailer provides shelter from the wind and rain. He had rations and water; that’s all he needs. It’s more important that he be here than that he sleeps comfortably.

They talk through the walls, secure in the knowledge this area was under watch by the Justice League, and by the Traveler did it feel good to come clean about everything. They exchange information; Bruce tells him exactly how he had gathered the information on the League and Dick tells him exactly what work he did for the League. Once they were both satisfied with the information gathered the conversation turns to less important subjects, sharing stories over their dismal meals of beef jerky and granola bars washed down with bottled water. It’s nice to be honest with him for a change.

At Bruce’s insistence Dick talks to try and keep him lucid. It doesn’t work; by the end of the day Bruce’s words are slurring, delayed and out of sync with each other. He starts missing words as his throat ceases up mid-sentence. By the time night comes the hallucinations have started. They start off small, with a scratch and a crawling in the metal walls, and get worse. The phantom sounds trickled in, even after Bruce covered his ears and begged them to stop. After the hallucinations came the fear, the waking fever dreams that left him paralyzed with dread as the bats eat through the walls. He howls and claws at his ears to try and get the noises to stop. The dead eyes of the flayed man stare into his.

By the fourth night Bruce can’t make sentences anymore. He hisses and croaks out single words in response to Dick’s questions, but more often to the hallucinated sounds that plague him. He whimpers his parents’ names and snatches of pleas or apologies. From the harsh, barked syllables Dick can piece together a trial of some sort is happening in Bruce’s delirium.

By the fifth he no longer understands language. In the first nights he had ranted, raved and rambled his way through the nightmares, but after the fourth night there was nothing but the pain and fear mingled howls and screams of a dying animal.

Dick stays and waits and listens as his son slowly dies in front of him all over again. He mourns.

When the ordeal is over and Bruce can finally step blinking into the light, he looks terrible.

His body still looks too big for him but now his cheeks are hollowed and his eyes the dead black of a wary animal. His skin is sallow and slick with cold sweat, pale and waxy as a candle. In a fit of mania he had started to claw at his own skin and the long scratch-marks are deep across his throat and face. To stop it happening again he has pulled out his nails with his teeth and eaten them and both hands and feet are tipped with tender red-skinned wounds. Dried blood speckles his scalp too, from where he has torn patches of his hair out. There is a shiver in his step as he walks forward, his teeth gritted tight together with the effort of it.

He walks one step, then two, and allows himself to collapse into Dick’s waiting arms and be cradled like a child. Dick mutters soothing nonsense to him as he holds Bruce close and strokes his hair. The trembling in Bruce’s body slowly fades, clearly on force of will more than a natural recovery. Bruce raises his head to look at him.

“Dick….” His voice is a hoarse croak, rasping in his throat. Some part of him had died, Dick could see it, but what was left was stronger for surviving it.

“First a hot bath for both of us.” Dick tells him. “Then some hot food. Kara’s brought us some homemade chicken soup from the Kents.”

Bruce tries to laugh but it comes out as a harsh cough and he has to fight to catch his breath again before it turns into a fit. Unable to speak a complete sentence he gives Dick a _look_ to convey the question; do they really think this is the kind of sickness chicken soup helps with?

Dick chuckles.

“A tasty placebo at least.” He says.

Jason looks up from where he is grilling hot-dogs over a portable grill with his mask half on.

“Looks like our débutante is ready for the ball. I’d offer you one but I don’t think you’re up to solids yet.” He says, taking a bite then dropping the sausage back onto the grill as he walks up to him. “Little soldier, you look like shit.” He says frankly.

“…feel like it.” Bruce can barely draw breath past his raw throat and weakly croaks in acknowledgement.

Jason claps him on his shoulder and flinches as he notes how Bruce is still trembling.

“Yeah, the Owls really did a number on you.” He says. “Don’t worry we paid them back.” Dick gives him a dark look. “Non-lethally of course.” Jason adds.

He ruffles Bruce’s hair and pulls him into a one-handed hug.

“Dick told me you knew I was Red Hood and I feel like a real asshole.” He says, far quieter. “I’m sorry for what happened to you, I should have picked up what you were putting down.” He smiles a small sad smile. “No-one’s ever accused me of being the smart one.”

Bruce’s throat hurts too much to say what he wants to say and he ends up making a dry-throated rasping croak like a bird of prey. He smacks Jason over the back of the head, it has all the impact of being smacked with cooked spaghetti, and frowns to make his point.

Jason chuckles.

“Alright, alright I get it.” He says. “No more self-depreciation.”

He leans in closer so Dick can’t overhear them.

“ _I’m proud of you._ ” He says in barely a whisper. “ _You were merciless, it was beautiful. If Dick still won’t let you out after this, come find me. I’ll take you on as a sidekick._ ”

“Jason, quit crowding him.” Tim says from across the campground. Presumably he has looked up from the holographic display he is adjusting variables on but Bruce can’t tell; he is wearing his mask and the smooth, featureless plane of skin covers his eyes.

Jason looks up at him and smiles his wolfish less-than-friendly smile.

“Jealous you’re not in on this Drake?” He asks. “You spent long enough freaking out about him.”

“I am not jealous.” Tim scoffs. “And I haven’t been freaking out. Just because you’re cavalier about other people’s safety doesn’t mean I have to be.”

“It’s called trusting your gut, you should try it sometime.” Jason teases. “Come on, you’ve been going over those figures all week.”

Bruce makes a guttural spluttering sound as he attempts to speak, frowns, then gestures to Tim. Tim sighs and minimizes the projection to his watch. He wraps his arm around Bruce’s other shoulder.

“I knew you would make it; you’re strong.” He tells Bruce. “I ran some tests on the after effects of high doses of Venom….”

“Save the shop talk for when he can tell you to shut up Drake.” Jason cuts him off.

Tim manages to look offended without facial features and Bruce’s shoulders shake as his laugh turns into a coughing fit.

It takes longer than a week for Bruce to fully recover. Not a day goes by without a member of Bruce’s extended family dropping by to see him. Dick is grateful for it; Bruce’s screams at the tail-end of the detox had started rumors of a new Gotham cryptid, the Nighthowler, and having heroes check in on them discouraged civilians from investigating themselves. Dick tries to distract Bruce by making an official gift of the trailer and getting him to furnish it but Bruce is observant. There is fear in the eyes of each hero; whether it was fear for him or fear of him, it was hard to tell sometimes. He had blood on his hands, he had reduced a man to 200 pounds of chunky salsa using nothing but his hands and some very sharp blades. No-one knew what to expect of him anymore.

His body has been exhausted by the rapid changes forced by the Venom. His skin is striped with stretch marks and he is clumsy as he adjusts to his change in size and strength. Ten years of puberty is right, he barely recognizes himself in the mirror any more. He looks twenty-five to Dick’s thirty something; he could probably get away with buying beer without a licence (something he notes for later, when he wants to annoy Dick again). Whatever was in the chemicals and whatever it was supposed to do he was stronger, too strong. If he isn’t careful he pushes past his body’s limits and shears muscle and breaks bone. It is immensely frustrating, finally having the strength to do what he wants and not having the control to not break himself doing it.

The campgrounds are a desolate piece of empty ground and abandoned for most of the year. There were few islands of greenery in Gotham and it is a relief to get away from the bare earth to the rest of the park for training.

“So what’s the deal with Haly’s?” Bruce asks as they spar. Getting used to his new strength has been a trial but thankfully muscle memory has carried through. “Zenya is an amazon?”

“Half.” Dick corrects him as he blocks a blow easily.

Here in the heart of the forest the branches clustered thickly together, weaving into each other like cell bars and limiting movement. A blanket of snapped and splintered wood carpeted the ground where Bruce had pushed past them anyway.

“Half an amazon isn’t any less impressive, Dick.” Bruce rolls his eyes.

Dick chuckles.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He says as he ducks under a punch. “Swung wide.” He says as a warning.

“Working on it.” Bruce says as a reminder he’s still adjusting. “What is someone like that doing here?” Bruce asks.

“Zenya’s technically a diplomatic envoy; her ma wanted her to experience some of the ‘world of man’ but mostly she was sweet on her da.” Dick explains with a smile. He catches a flung knife with two fingers as he leaps higher into the tree.

Bruce tries to follow but his balance is still off; he skins his palm on the tree bark and the branches creak ominously under his weight. He doesn’t trust himself on the higher branches. He curses under his breath; Dick was so much more agile than him, it was frustrating.

He draws the rest of his knives and flings them in formation to try to get Dick back in range. Dick dodges out of the way of three of them but blocks the fourth with a knife of his own to disturb the pattern.

Bruce is out of the feather bladed throwing knives but Dick had kindly let him have his own blades back. The blade hums through the air on its curved trajectory. He completes the pattern with it and Dick obligingly leaps back within range. Adjusting to the weight change is throwing Bruce’s patterns off, he feels more outclassed than ever.

“That’s it?” Bruce asks.

Dick looks surprisingly sheepish for a man in body armor.

“Fact is, Haly’s is a kind of…halfway house for ex-heroes, ex-villains, or more often the offspring and spouses of either.” He explains. “We’re mostly human, at least last time I checked, but, well, circus people are weird already. It doesn’t matter if you haven’t quite got the hang of society yet.”

“That explains a lot.” Bruce says as he closes the distance between them. Training with Dick, seriously _training_ for a fight rather than a show, is different to training with Jason. His blood is up, his heart is pumping, it felt good to fight again. “I don’t know how you get away with it.”

“The Owls didn’t want their circus falling under too much scrutiny.” Dick explains. “I just tweaked their systems a bit to allow more wriggle room. The training is useful even if you aren’t a budding assassin, and it’s the childhood I knew.”

Bruce tosses him over his shoulder. There is a crack of splintering wood as Dick collides with a tree trunk. The armor provides him with shielding but it is still a solid blow.

“I never thought I’d be training a Talon.” Dick mutters under his breath as he gets back to his feet.

“Never?” Bruce asks, picking up on the muttered words.

“I hoped never.” Dick sighs. “But sometimes it feels like fighting is all I am good for.”

He sinks a punch into Bruce’s ribs as if to demonstrate. The Talon suit absorbs the impact well. Dick punctuates his next words with a swift flurry of blows to force Bruce on the defensive.

“The Owls, you see, they ordered killing like their forefathers ordered coal; always come by the tradesman’s entrance, never make eye contact, never speak unless spoken to, never touch anything, always call them Master, then toddle off like a good little killer to take down your target.” Dick says. Bruce fends him off, watching and waiting for an opening to strike back. “Being a hero was similar at the start; always meet on the roof, never make eye-contact, never make small talk, never touch anything, just be told your target and leave. I called Barbara Master once and she’s never going to let me forget it.”

He snaps off a thick, straight branch from the tree and tosses it to Bruce. Bruce catches it one-handed. The Talon suit had many weapons but a staff wasn’t one of them; why give their assassin a blunt instrument to kill with? Dick used a staff.

“When I bought the circus I found the Owls were already using it to train my successor.” Dick explains. “That would have been Jason, but when I showed up and bought the place…” Dick sighs and strokes a hand through his hair sheepishly. “I guess he felt like I was taking his home away from him or something. He disappeared back to the Gotham underground and I didn’t see him again until he started calling himself Red Hood. He hadn’t been with Haly’s long but they’d already started training him as a Talon candidate…” Dick takes a combat stance.

“Do you think you could have beat him?” Bruce asks as he tests his footing and takes a ready stance. “In a hypothetical no-holds-barred, winner-take-all deathmatch for the Talon title?”

“Bruce, stop being so morbid.” Dick says but still laughs. “Of course I could beat Jason.”

“Uh-huh, sure.” Bruce conveys he doesn’t quite believe him and swings.

“Wow.” Dick says with mock hurt as he effortlessly blocks the blow. “Betrayed by my own child.”

Bruce improvises. He throws the branch directly at Dick’s face and, as Dick bats it out of the way, Bruce sweeps in and sinks a solid punch into his side. Bruce feels his knuckles crack and swears under his breath. He has put too much effort into it and broken a knuckle again. Dick smacks him over the head with his staff to punish his mistake.

Bruce backs down and calls a break with the raise of a hand. Though it pains Dick to admit it Bruce was a good sparring partner.

“Your footing’s off, you’re still telegraphing your attacks and you’re _slow._ ” Dick points out as he drinks from his water bottle.

“I know.” Bruce says with a sigh and flexes his hands. “This is going to take some getting used to.”

“At least you have someone to help you with it.” Dick says.

Dick resets his knuckles with a crack. It hurts but pain is temporary, it will heal soon enough. He holds Bruce’s hand straight and binds his knuckles to make sure they heal in line.

“For how long?” Bruce asks and it hurts Dick’s heart to hear him already preparing to be abandoned.

“As long as it takes.” Dick tells him firmly.

Dick feels a stab of pity for him. Bruce had taken the changes in his stride, balancing the pros and cons with a cool tactical mind. He viewed it as gaining a strength to match a metahuman, not realizing what he had lost. The Owls had taken Bruce’s humanity from him. That was alright; the Owls had taken his humanity too. They could be monsters together.

“Didn’t know you could take time off from saving the world.” Bruce says with a wry smile.

“I mostly do alien invasions and such.” Dick returns the smile. “But I’m probably owed a few vacation days. I noticed you holding back in the pursuit, let’s do balance work next.”

Some time passes before Dick’s invitation is accepted; when it is there is no warning.

Bruce merely finishes his shower one morning to find there are two new people in the campgrounds. That immediately puts him on edge; the campgrounds are closed and therefore off limits to anyone who didn’t already know who they were and why they were there, the Justice League had made sure of that. Not one of the perimeter alarms had been tripped. Sneaking up on them _should_ be impossible, which means that there is only one group he knows of that could have done so.

Fine. It was that time then.

Bruce takes a breath to steel himself and steps outside to meet the League of Shadows. Dick is already there, waiting for him.

“Bruce, this is my teacher Damian Al Ghul, the Master of Shadows, and Cassandra Cain, the Lady Shiva.” Dick says.

Bruce looks them over.  The Master of Shadows looks younger than Dick was, late twenties at the most, and Bruce wonders how he could have been Dick’s teacher. The woman, Cassandra Cain, could be mistaken for a member of the circus, she’s toned like an acrobat or a dancer, but she stands with all the predatory grace of a panther and Bruce is sure she could end him faster than he could blink.

“Yes. Could beat you.” She says, sounding amused and Bruce wonders how she knew what he was thinking before he finished thinking it.

“They will be taking over your training. You’ve gotten too strong for me.” Dick laughs and ruffles Bruce’s hair.

“You mean you’re too soft to train him properly Grayson.” Damian corrects him. “Too afraid to get your hands bloody.”

“He’s killed Dami.” Dick says softly and Bruce feels a guilty flutter in his stomach.

Damian snorts.

“So you’re sending him to the League of Shadows, you with that self-righteous moral code of yours?” He asks.

“You’ve never murdered.” Dick says and Damian bursts into laughter. “You were very insistent about the terminology.” Dick adds to justify his previous statement. “You don’t murder, you _execute_. He has killed.”

“Ah, so it’s an issue of discipline.” Damian says and strokes his chin.

The Master of Shadows looks at Bruce with eyes cold and sharp as the edge of a blade and entirely without mercy. There is something cold there, colder than ice. It was the faraway look of someone who already saw you as dead, you just hadn't stopped moving yet.

“I look at you and all I see is a baby, clinging to his father’s legs, another snivelling spoiled little brat who thinks they are worth the time of the Master of Shadows.” Damian says.

“I am not a child.” Bruce says softly, feeling insulted and threatened at the same time.

“No, to me you’re not even that, an infant maybe, fat and squirming and helpless, who with care may grow into a child. I am not your father. I am not your friend. I will take you and I will hurt you. If you want my respect you will earn it.” Damian says and Bruce meets his eyes, just for a moment, before he bows his head and averts his gaze. Damian smiles a small, smug smile.

“What is it you desire little killer?” Damian asks him. “You have tasted blood for the first time, I can see what that has awoken. Violence is your natural element, you are a predator uncaged and every part of you yearns to act on your instincts. What is it you desire?” He asks.

Bruce looks up and for a moment meets Damian's eyes.

“What I desire isn’t blood, it’s justice.” He says quietly and Damian smiles genuinely for the first time in this meeting.

“Very well Dick, I will take your little killer for _proper_ instruction.” He says and addresses Bruce once more. “You will take nothing with you but the clothes on your back; for their myriad faults the Court of Owls at least invests in decent equipment for its Talon. Your instruction begins immediately.”

He gestures with a curt jerk of his head and Cassandra is behind him in less than a second. She strikes the back of his neck and Bruce is unconscious before he can hit the floor. Dick winces at the impact even though he knows Damian wouldn’t want him dead. Cassandra picks Bruce up and slings him over her shoulder.

“He is proud, that will need to be corrected.” Damian tells Dick. “He has the will, he has the ability, what he lacks currently is the proper direction. He seeks a clear purpose, a code to temper his anger from a wildfire into a cutting flame. For that he will need to experience the real world you’ve been protecting him from.”

Dick sighs.

“I know.” He says.

Damian raises an eyebrow.

“And if, at the end of his training, he chooses the path of the shadow rather than the path of the hero?” He asks.

“That is his choice.” Dick says seriously as he looks out over the campgrounds. “But…I have faith in his ability to make the right decision.”

“You always were an optimist.” Damian snorts dismissively.

“It’s not weak to have hope.” Dick replies.

“Tch.” Damian clicks his tongue dismissively. “Maybe the boy will surpass his father in understanding what needs to be done.”

“We’ll see.” Dick replies neutrally and Damian smiles the genuine smile of someone with a challenge laid before them.

“His instruction will not be simple. He has habits that must be unlearned before he can be taught.” Damian tells him. “I will not use the pit in his instruction; I barely use it myself anymore, my father always comes back first and I tire of repeating the battle.”

His tone turns wistful as he stares off into the fog of the nostalgic past.

“I remember when you first came to me." He says. "You were his age then, a trembling baby bird with blood on his hands. I was surprised one so young could find Nanda Parbat, and more surprised when you asked me for training. I’ve always thought the Talon was a pathetic puppet of an assassin, but you wanted to _learn._ ”

“You look the same as you did then.” Dick points out.

“Tt. Of course I do. What would be the point of the Lazarus pit otherwise?” Damian points out with a small frown.

“It’s weird being taller than you now.” Dick says teasingly and Damian’s frown deepens.

“I may owe you a blood debt but mock my height again and I will break a finger Grayson. This is your only warning.” He says.

Dick ruffles his hair and Damian endures it stoically. After he had been crippled by one of his sister’s attempts on his life Dick had carried him for a week across the mountains to the pit; he had earned a little familiarity.

“Do we have to worry about Talia interfering with his training?” Dick asks. Damian frowns.

“My dear sister has been trouble ever since I consumed our father, why would she stop now?” Damian sighs. “Where I wish to trim the dead wood to allow the plant to grow, she insists it must be uprooted. She is still too much like him. Let’s just say for now I am willing to have hope…” He smiles, a smile with no arrogance in it, no knowledge that seems too old for his body. “But her League of Assassins is on the move. If I am to train the boy it is up to your club of heroes to stop her. This is the price I demand for my assistance.”

“Consider it done.” Dick says.

“Then the pact is sealed.” Damian declares and draws the fur collar of his jade green robe closer around him. “One year in Nanda Parbat, then the boy chooses his own path.”


	16. Nanda Parbat

“Shadow, where is the best place to stand?” Bruce’s covert operations instructor Maya Ducard, the one known as Nobody, asks him.

Bruce goes over the environment once more, rerunning internal calculations to confirm what he had already worked out.

“There.” He points out the place.

“Incorrect.” Maya informs him.

“Wait.” Damian orders her as he walks across the training ground. The great bat-dragon that was both mount and bodyguard walks at his side. “Justify your answer.” He orders Bruce.

“The prime location would be this site if I were operating in a vacuum.” Bruce says, pointing out the area Maya would have accepted as the correct answer. “However, a shadow must consider that they are never alone and such a location would also be monitored by any sufficiently trained bodyguard or occupied by an assassin. Accordingly, I have selected an area that allows me to observe not only my target but also my opposition.”

“Half correct.” Damian tells him. “Your analysis is right but you have drawn a false conclusion. We do not _compromise_ with our enemy; to do so is to weaken yourself and strengthen them. A shadow stands in the best place, regardless of who else might seek to stop them. A shadow sees all threats and they disappear. A shadow faces no opposition for that would imply that one stands as the shadow’s equal, do you understand me?”

“Yes Master Damian.” Bruce says politely, having the good sense to lower his eyes. The boy’s pride is hurt, Damian can tell, but he is doing a much better job at hiding it than he had when he had first arrived.

“Go.” Damian orders. “Stand in a shadow’s place, if you can keep it.”

Bruce gives him a brief bow in acknowledgement of the order and takes three calculated leaps to the indicated spot. Damian’s highly-tuned senses automatically log the following struggle of his student against the rest of the class, though the struggle makes barely a whisper of sound.

The great red-furred bat-dragon twitches one large ear at the absence of sound and whumps curiously in the boy’s direction as he sniffs the air for him. Goliath liked Bruce but there was no accounting for taste; Goliath would like anyone who would rub his belly.

When they had first met Bruce had been terrified of the hulking bat-like beast and, with a dog’s disregard for people who don’t like dogs, Goliath had immediately licked him, then flopped on top of the boy and refused to move until he got scratched under the chin. Damian had insisted the boy hand feed Goliath until Damian had judged his fear to be sufficiently mastered. It did mean that the bat-dragon had started to associate the boy with food however, and the fact that Bruce wasn’t required to feed him anymore hadn’t curbed Goliath’s optimism that there might be treats if he looked pathetic and whined enough.

Goliath makes a soft whining sound to indicate the battle is over and snorts in concern as the boy’s unconscious body is carried down. One of the earliest lessons the League of Shadows taught was there was no such thing as surrender; a shadow fought until they or everyone else was defeated, even in training.

“Is he improving?” Damian asks Maya.

“Physically yes.” Maya informs him. “He learns quickly and listens well but mentally he is still lacking in discipline. He is too proud. He thinks he knows better. When I give him an order he pauses to question it before obeying.”

“Suren has told me as much.” Damian says with a sigh. “Very well. I will take him for personal instruction.”

“Do you think he deserves that?” Maya asks before she can bite her tongue.

“True he is unworthy, but how else can he become worthy?” Damian asks and Maya doesn’t point out she didn’t mean it as a _compliment._ She was quite fond of her student and didn’t think his discipline issues were bad enough to warrant suffering Damian’s personal attention.

“Goliath.” He orders and the red-furred bat-dragon steps forward and gathers the boy in his arms.

Goliath makes a soft ‘reyonk’ sound and nuzzles the boy then licks his face. Bruce stirs then jolts back into consciousness, giving his face a thorough scrub clean with his sleeve.

“Hello Goliath.” He says politely and scratches the bat-dragon under the chin. Goliath hums, his yellow eyes sliding shut and his large ears twitching happily.

“Are your legs broken boy?” Damian asks coldly and Bruce realizes the situation.

“Sorry Master Damian!” Bruce says quickly as he climbs out of Goliath’s arms.

The bat-dragon snorts at the sudden stop in chin scratches and snuffles at his back. Bruce keeps his eyes on Damian as he reaches into his pockets and finds the dried fish he had kept hidden from breakfast.

“Good boy.” He whispers into Goliath’s large ear as he feeds the bat-dragon the morsels.

“You’re going to spoil him.” Damian points out without looking behind him.

“It’s worth it to keep him friendly.” Bruce replies and stumbles a step as Goliath headbutts him with a desire to be patted. He scratches the bat dragon between the ears and Goliath croons happily. His ears flutter.

Damian snorts.

“He’d drop you off a cliff if I asked.” He points out.

“But if you asked him to drop _someone_ off a cliff, I would be picked last.” Bruce replies.

Damian stops walking.

“There you go again, conversing like we are equals.” He says. “You think yourself better than your teachers, boy, and that pride will be your undoing. Your meals are carefully formulated; you are consistently sacrificing your own energy for an uncertain ally and consider that a sensible tactical decision. A matrydom complex is not an endearing thing, child.”

“I don’t have….” Bruce starts to protest and is silenced by Damian’s cold eyes.

“Even now you try to protest instead of acknowledging you have flaw and working to correct it.” He adds. “Goliath is well-fed, you know this, still you are humouring him not to his benefit but so you can feel master of your fear.”

Damian clicks his tongue disapprovingly.

“Forget what your father has taught you boy.” He says. “The best way to be a hero isn’t by sacrificing yourself; the best way to be a hero is to act efficiently as possible for maximum benefit for others. Sometimes that means prioritizing yourself over others, sometimes that means sacrificing social standing but a life saved will always, ALWAYS be worth more than being thought of as a hero. A live shadow will always help more people than any dead hero can. You are in yourself a tool to be applied to a task; care for yourself as do your other tools.” His tone becomes less serious. “Besides, Goliath will like anyone who pats him, regardless of whether he is also getting treats.”

“Reet!” The bat-dragon says as if agreeing and licks the back of Bruce’s head, making his hair stand up on end.

“Come.” Damian orders, clicking his fingers for Goliath to return to his side. “You train with me now.”

Bruce jolts in surprise then tries to compose himself. Damian clicks his tongue derisively at the outward display of emotion.

“Unpin your heart from your sleeve boy, lest the jackdaws eat it.” Damian adds.

“’I am not what I am’” Bruce murmurs to himself, completing the Shakespearean quotation.

Damian laughs.

“An admirable mindset, do note it.” He adds.

“Iago was hardly a role model.” Bruce points out but Damian seems to be in a more talkative mood and willing to engage him in conversation, if only to correct him. For all his scolding Damian did genuinely enjoy talking with the boy. Bruce sometimes thought it was because he loved the sound of his own voice.

“Was he not? He achieved his goals where men more bound with honor are his tools and his prey. I do not expect your heart, like me you were cast as a leader not a follower, but it would do you well to learn how to pretend otherwise.” Damian tells him. “’In following, I follow but myself.’” He quotes. “A shadow feints strength where they are weak, and weakness where they are strong. Their ends are not known until they have been achieved and, even then, only rarely. If a shadow’s heart is known they become undone.”

Damian taps Bruce’s heart with the tip of his sword.

“Your heart burns strong, that is good, but it burns a wildfire that harms friend as well as foe. It must be tempered; you need to learn when to stoke it and when to deny it fuel. As you stand your heart rules you but you do not rule your heart. That is a great weakness.” He warns.

Bruce wants to protest out of stubborn habit but he is learning. Damian was harsh but he did have a point. Arguing now would be a wasted effort.

“What do you want me to do?” Bruce asks instead.

“Dick indicated you have become hamrammr, shape-strong, during the time with the court. We will work on refining this instinct into the true battle trance.” Damian tells him.

Bruce frowns and flexes his fingers.

“Is there a problem?” Damian asks him.

“I didn’t like what the Court did to me.” Bruce says quietly. “It wasn’t what I am, no, it wasn’t what I _should_ be. It…It didn’t make me do anything I didn’t want to do...” His voice trails off. “I wanted to kill him, but I shouldn’t have wanted to…”

“You _are_ learning.” Damian says with a small proud smile. “I am not Dick, I will not judge you lacking for showing your true heart. Discipline over it is what you are here to _learn._ Those who can hamask, become animal, are rare but many never learn how to master it and view it as a weakness to be supressed rather than the strength it can be. The animal mind is not to be feared; the bear protects her cub, and the wolf hunts in company. Your bloodthirst can be channelled into useful action. Harm to the innocent is not inherent to its nature but caused by your inexperience with it.”

“I think…I think it may have happened another time.” Bruce says carefully, examining the thought as he has it. “When I was fighting Ravager, there was a moment where everything went clear. He put a gun to my head and…I should have been afraid but it was the opposite. My body knew what to do without thinking, it felt natural. I wasn’t afraid. I was free.”

Damian smiles to himself.

“Remember that feeling boy.” He says. “I’m going to beat you until you find it again.” His smile goes sadistic. “Make it easy on both of us and don’t waste energy on overthinking.”

“Easier said than done.” Bruce mutters under his breath.

“Would I ask you to do anything easy?” Damian asks with an arch of an eyebrow and smacks him with the back of the sword.

Bruce bites back a yelp of surprise and pain. There’s a look of amusement in Damian’s eyes, mocking him for thinking there would be a clear signal to when the battle has begun.

Bruce’s eyes flit over the mountain path; he is unarmed and Damian is, the ground is a dry clay baked as hard as rock and smoothed by the pressure of many feet…Another smack with the sword trips him.

“Don’t think, _fight._ ” Damian orders him. Bruce hasn’t seen him move either time but he wouldn’t expect to.

Bruce growls and pulls himself back to his feet, already trying to find something to use as a weapon. There are no loose stones left on the path and no overhanging branches he can grab at. His fingers swipe across the smooth earth. A sword smack to the head leaves him reeling and he had never given thought before to how humiliating it was to _not_ be cut with an edged weapon.

“Still too slow.” Damian hums, completely unfussed. “Do you not feel threatened enough by my presence boy? Perhaps you are relying on the promise I made to your father to not kill you?”

He nods to the red-furred bat-dragon who snorts and straightens up, ready to receive orders.

“Goliath. Kill him.” He orders and whistles sharply. The world seamlessly becomes one of Bruce’s nightmares.

The bat-dragon charges towards him far faster than a man could, dark lips drawing back from yellowing fangs and a reek of fish guts hot on his breath. One moment Goliath is at Damian’s side, the next he is looming over Bruce with the hulking giant’s body blotting out the sun and a massive clawed hand raised to tear off his head.

Terror flicks up a memory of the illustration in a book he had seen as a child – Camazotz ‘Death Bat’ a Mayan god of night and human sacrifice – as he dives out of the way of the descending hand. Goliath’s claws gouge curls from the clay.

Bruce hears Damian laugh over the bubbling in his ears of the sounds of the bat-dragon outside of the range of human hearing, but he doesn’t have time to think. Goliath’s claws cut into his back as he tries to flee, shredding the cloth and the flesh underneath. There is a stinging pain and blood runs down his sides. He dives off the clay path. Rocks tear at him through the fabric of his uniform as he skids down the mountain slope towards the forest below in a barely controlled slide.

Wings are beating behind him, claws digging into the clay, he can’t afford to look behind as he hits the treeline. Twigs shatter under his feet. The leaves are flying in his face and blinding him to the thicker black-barked branches. He rolls into a ball on instinct and is bounced like a bagatelle ball by the larger branches. He can barely see for long enough to snatch at one before he is dumped to the ground. He turns his fall into a swing, trying to preserve as much momentum as he can. The branches are thick and clusters of bright green leaves obscure the view. With the branches shaking in the wind and the leaves now stuck in his dark clothes, he would be perfectly camouflaged against a human opponent.

But his opponent isn’t human. Though the branches prevent use of his wings, Goliath just folds them in against his back and swings through the trees like an orangutan. Bruce doesn’t know these treetops as well as the bat-dragon; Goliath lived and hunted in these forests and Bruce merely trained here. The only way he has managed to avoid his claws so far is luck and his smaller frame letting him fit into spaces between the branches that Goliath has to tear through.

Branches break behind him close enough for the splinters to scratch him and he hears the snuffling growls of the beast behind. Even if he loses him for long enough to hide, the scent of his blood would draw Goliath to him faster than he could conceal it.

Fear is filling his thoughts; each desperate leap is made before he can think or try to plan ahead. He has no time to observe his surroundings or find a way to even the odds. There is only fear and luck as he manages to evade his pursuer by the skin of his teeth, and luck won’t hold forever.

He leaps and sees too late the branch he will land on is dead and rotting. It cracks under his foot as he lands then it twists. Bruce slips, his momentum carries him forward and towards the ground. A clawed hand grabs his ankle. Bruce feels his foot dislocate as his momentum halts. He is dangling by one leg in the claws of the beast.

Goliath hauls him up to the level of one yellow eye and snorts. The pupil of his unscarred eye narrows as he examines his prey. A gust of hot reeking breath rushes over Bruce’s face as Goliath opens his mouth. Adrenaline floods Bruce’s system as something pure and animal and desperate for survival comes to the surface. His thoughts stop, the fear leaves him and all that is left is a pure desire to get away. Then Bruce’s vision shatters like a kaleidoscope into barely glimpsed fragments of fur and fang as survival instinct takes over. It doesn’t stop until Cassandra is calmly covering his eyes with her hand and he is blind.

The world rushes back in around him so fast Bruce swears his ears pop and he takes a deep gasping breath of air like a drowning man surfacing. His body arches against the dirt underneath him. His muscles scream with pain now he has acknowledged them and lets them stop fighting.

Bruce falls still as the scattered memories present themselves for stitching back together. The flashes of color and movement need thought to interpret. Trying to piece together the shards of memory is like piecing together a dream; it made sense at the time but recalling it took effort. He hadn’t thought, he hadn’t thought anything, he had just acted. His world had become nothing but his goal, and he had done everything to achieve it and not let _anything_ , pain hunger or fear, get in the way.

Cassandra smiles.

“Learning.” She says and removes her hand.

Bruce blinks and stares blankly at the sky. Stars shine in the darkness overhead and the sound of branches in the wind rustles in his ears. They are still in the forest then. With no slavering beast at his heels the place seems peaceful and quiet.

Every part of him hurts but he is probably not dead, at least not yet. He would be if he had to fight Cassandra, but that was at much of a foregone conclusion as trying to fight the sun. He has to move, the exercise isn’t over until he hears the order, so that means Goliath would still be after him and he can’t rely on Cassandra helping him.

He forces his aching body to raise himself up on his arms and nearly passes out.

“Stop.” Cassandra orders him.

Bruce pauses, drawing in deep breaths and suppressing the urge to vomit, as he clings to consciousness. He gives up on the idea of standing for now.

“What happened?” Bruce asks. He flinches as he realizes the folly in asking Cassandra to explain the situation; talking was still a great effort on the part of the famously silent assassin.

The Lady Shiva pauses as she always does, constructing her sentences as carefully as an architect constructs a building.

“I hit you.” She says and Bruce winces. That explains his trouble standing.

“Did I do it?” Bruce asks seriously, hoping he at least lost control of himself for something useful. Part of him was still screaming at him that any time he didn’t have complete control over the situation people would die; it was hard to ignore.

Cassandra nods and smiles, helping him up into a sitting position against the bark of a nearby tree.

“Safe now.” She tells him.

Bruce closes his eyes and tries to recall the feeling. It had been like disassociating in inverse; instead of becoming distant from his body he had become so close with it everything else had faded. There is still a trace of that feeling lurking like a dream but he is too tired to reach out and grab it. His body is screaming with the pain of exhaustion.

“I don’t know how to do it again.” Bruce mutters under his breath. “It’s there but I just can’t reach it again.”

Cassandra pauses, putting together her words and working past the mental blocks instilled in her.

“You ran for ten hours.” She tells him. “Damian sent me to catch you.”

Bruce’s eyes open again and Cassandra is smiling at him.

“Ten hours?” He asks.

Cassandra nods to confirm it.

“Learning.” She says again, softly, and Bruce realizes he is being complemented.

A mournful ‘hroo’ noise makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and he tries to scramble to his feet. His pulse hammers in his ears and his vision swoops dizzyingly before Cassandra pins him back against the tree with one hand.

“Dehydrated.” She says with a frown.

That explains the dizziness…

Goliath’s ears droop and he snuffles sadly in Bruce’s direction. His shoulders hunch to make him look smaller. One arm is held close against his chest and Bruce can see from the bandage wrap that two of his fingers are broken. His memory is still too disorganized for him to remember how he done that…

“Safe now.” Cassandra repeats with a small frown.

Goliath whumps in agreement, clutching his injured hand close to his chest. He yawns, his large pink tongue curling over yellow fangs, and drops to all fours with his wings folded in to make him look smaller. He doesn’t seem interested in attacking Bruce. In fact he seems to be apologizing. The bat-dragon snorts and presses a clawed hand to his own forehead in a request for a pat, then whines when he doesn’t get one. He flops over and rests his chin against Bruce’s legs.

“He was going to kill me.” Bruce says, half to himself. His ankle hurts but his foot has been relocated.

Cassandra shakes her head.

“Not kill but hurt very bad. Damian’s order was make you think you could die.” She tells him, making it clear he was in danger, just not in danger of dying. “But you learned my first language.” She says and gestures up to the canopy. Bruce sees the broken branches dangling there. “Now, you are like a baby crying.” She says, tapping Bruce’s chest. “New-born, don’t know…words.” Her voice stutters, unsure of if she has correctly structured a metaphor. “I’ll teach you later.”

Bruce nods and she pauses, trying to find the words.

“Damian is proud.” She tells him and Bruce can’t help but smile to himself.

Damian was notoriously fickle and hard to please, though he could hardly be blamed considering he had the restless spirit of a thousand-year-old dictator in his head. Well, a memory imprint, Bruce did not believe in ghosts.

She looks off to the side. She must be feeling awkward after saying so much.

“Rest now.” She orders, silently conveying that he will need to recover his strength. “Learning is…tiring.”

Bruce agrees with her; every part of him is aching and his memories still need going over. He doesn’t object as Goliath gathers him in his warm furred arms to carry him back. Taking action without having time to plan or assess is both foreign and terrifying to him, but he’s going to need to suppress his knee-jerk disgust to master this skill. His time is limited. He needs to learn fast.

In his time here he had learnt many things about the League of Shadows, more than most people did in a lifetime. As an organization they were fast and efficient. They acted to save people without taking credit for their actions, each only identified as a shadow. There was an uneasy truce between the Justice League and the League of Shadows. Neither organization approved of the other, but they were both too powerful to take down the other without taking unacceptable losses. It had led to the formation of what was called the unwritten rules, less of an unbreakable law than a code of polite conduct; the League of Shadows wouldn’t target those already being penalized by the justice system and in return the Justice League did not hunt them outside of their missions.

They moved covertly as they did their duty of what Damian called curating, or pruning, or sanitizing, but never murder, for that would imply an innocent victim, and those Damian marked for removal were what he called the pus of humanity. He spoke of it as charity. He spoke of cleansing the wounds of society so they might heal; a job that was messy and unpleasant but a necessary and even noble suffering on the part of those that did it. He spoke so softly of easing the pain of those hurt you could almost forget he was talking about doing it by killing the ones responsible.

The League of Shadows were vigilantes, condemned by the governments and heroes alike for Damian’s core belief; to save humanity there were cancers that had to be cut away. Unlike the Justice League, the League of Shadows believed there were some crimes were unforgivable, and the only moral recourse one had was to remove the perpetrator before they further tainted the world.

Bruce didn’t know what he believed yet.

It was still hard to fit in his head that his teachers and all his fellow students were killers, but he was too, wasn’t he? You only became a student of the League of Shadows after you had spilled blood for justice. He couldn’t reconcile the Cassandra Cain who liked ballet and said so much without words with the Cassandra Cain who was called the Lady Shiva. He couldn’t believe the Damian who was always so kind to dogs and children was the same person as the Damian who had ordered Goliath to kill him, or that the bat-winged monster that had hunted him like a nightmare was the same beast as the one that lay on his lap demanding to be petted.

There was a duality to it that was hard for him to grasp. Sometimes Bruce felt he was being into pulled apart into two people; the Bruce Wayne who performed in the circus and lived an unusual but comfortable life and the Bruce Wayne that lived with assassins in the shadows, who was less a man and more a bat with every passing moment. It was hard to tell which one was the real him; the circus seems so far away now, like a mask he wore, or a dream. In the dark he could feel his wings spreading.

What he was and what he should be were different things. He wasn’t a hero; it wasn’t in his nature. He didn’t smile and he wasn’t cheerful. He didn’t make friends like Dick did. People didn’t love him, they feared him and he preferred it that way. He loved the violence, he loved the rush of taking someone apart with his fists, and he hated that he loved it. Damian had been right when he said it was his element. Damian was right about many things.

“I’ve always wanted a son.” Damian had once confided in him over dinner.

The entire League of shadows ate together like a family, gathered around one massive table where the seating was arranged around the complex inner politics of the League of Shadows.

Damian sat at the head of the table with his closest confidants at his sides; Maya Ducard who taught covert operations at his right, Suren Darga who taught languages at his left, Cassandra Cain who taught non-verbal languages, Colin Wilkes who taught unarmed combat and, for the night, Bruce as well. The Rose Blade, real name Rose Wilson, the midpoint of the Wilson siblings and part-time League of Shadows member who taught sword fighting, was away on a mission and Bruce had been allowed her seat. It was blatant favoritism but, unlike the rest of Damian’s students, Bruce was on a deadline to graduation, and Damian thought the resentment of the rest of his class was a valuable teaching tool.

Bruce had frowned and passed the wooden bowl of bread rolls closer to Cassandra’s blindly reaching hand. She grabbed three of them and ate them in two bites each before raising her bowl to funnel rice straight into her mouth. Years apart from it hadn’t broken her of the habits of her childhood; she only ate one meal a day but ate as much as she could then. She had been trained to believe the food wouldn’t last.

“Aren’t you scared he would do the same thing to you that you did to your father?” Bruce had asked Damian.

Damian had laughed.

“I’d like to think I’d be a better father.” He said. “Less being murdered and painfully resurrected and more…puppies and so on.” He waved a hand dismissively. “I would not force him to follow. I’d want him to stand by my side of his own free will.” He explained.

Damian gestured to the gathered shadows.

“Unlike my father I do not fear introspection. Those that stand with me stand with me not out of fear or zealotry but a genuine belief in the cause. Everyone here is here because they were chosen by the shadows. They are united by it. Here is where they belong.” He said and there was something of a father’s pride in his voice. “Our tools are logic and reason, not pain and cruelty.”

“You kill people.” Bruce had said.

“’People’ is being generous.” Damian had replied. “They were no longer People. They were murderers, they were slavers and rapists and torturers and worse. They gave up their humanity. There was nothing left but a beast that needed to be put down before it can hurt anyone else. Some people do not deserve to live.” Damian’s eyes seemed to look through him, as if he could read Bruce’s soul. “Surely you of all people understand this.”

The words had lingered in Bruce’s mind; they surfaced again now.

Bruce wonders if the dark was where he belonged. It could be his destiny to take up the burden of the League of Shadows. Perhaps if he could wash his hands in enough blood, it would stop feeling like his failing. Maybe he could become so steeped in the darkness he became a true shadow worthy of the title and stand at Damian’s side. Maybe in time he could forget Dick, who had so much faith in him. Maybe in time he could even believe he was doing the right thing.

Bruce was afraid of what he could be in the dark. The image of the flayed man imprinted on his eyelids; stripped down piece by bloody piece while he was high on Venom, rage and existential despair. In the dark he could become a monster if he didn’t tame his anger first. So much of him had been tied up in his hatred, in his loss, he had felt that once he had his revenge he would dissolve like cotton candy in the rain. He hadn’t expected to live, no, he hadn’t wanted to live. He wanted the dark to swallow him up with the weight of the deed. The Owls could have his body; Bruce Wayne would be dead…

But Dick still thought he could be saved and Bruce was afraid, so desperately afraid, that Dick was wrong. He doesn’t know if there is anything left of him worth saving.


	17. Pit of Victories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been retroactively added to the fic for those confused as to where it's come from, it takes place during Bruce's training with the League of Shadows. This is the first of three retroactive chapters (so far...)

“Pick up your sword.” The Rose orders.

The Rose, Rose Wilson as she was born, wasn’t even sweating. She stood perfectly poised in the exact center of the sand floored arena the League of Shadows used for one-on-one fights. She could be mistaken for a gymnast or an acrobat if it wasn’t for the sword she had named herself after; a Hmong blade she had honed to a perfect weapon. It gleamed in a way common metal could not.

The arena was mostly used for bouts between students, Damian being a firm believer in combat as a debate tool. Sometimes it was used by an instructor to discipline a particularly stubborn pupil as was happening now. Bruce grits his teeth and picks up his blade from the fine white sand.

As soon as his hand closes around the blade’s handle Rose strikes again. The tip of the Rose Blade drags across his ribs, tearing the cloth of his training shirt and leaving another line of weeping red on his chest. The cut is scalpel fine but Bruce can _feel_ how easy it would be for Rose to put a bit more pressure on the blade and puncture his lungs. He locks his sword against the Rose Blade, near the hilts, and forces it back before it can complete the cut. The slice ends with a wobble as he forces the blade back. His blood drips onto the sand. The white sand was marred with speckles of blood, causing the sand to clump together like in the Colosseum of old. All of it was his. He hadn’t managed to as much as scratch his teacher.

Bruce grits his teeth against the pain of the many fine cuts on his torso and arms. They sting as his sweat runs into the open wounds. He doesn’t know how long he had been fighting but each breath felt like broken glass in his lungs and his muscles ached to the bone. He swings his blade out in desperation, trying to break from his defensive stance to an offensive one. Rose doesn’t even dignify his attempt with a block, she bends like a willow around the blade and cuts another line across his forearm. Bruce keeps his grip on the sword even though he feels like he is very slowly being flogged. He pulls the blade in closer to his chest to make his arms less of a target and struggles to push forward with it.

“Surely training with Colin has shown you that someday someone is going to be bigger and stronger than you, and the only way to survive will be to be smarter than them.” Rose says in a tone of teacherly wisdom and twists her blade against his so all the force is heading down. The tip of the sword scrapes the sands and Rose adds another stripe to his upper arm.

Swords were not Bruce’s forte, ironically. He would prefer getting into another bare-knuckle brawl with Colin to duelling the Rose. There was something straightforward about brawling; even when he was getting the shit kicked out of him he at least knew how they were doing it. It was something he understood. When fighting Rose all he understood was that he understood nothing about swords. He is painfully aware of how much more experienced than him she is. Rose is probably in as much danger from him as he would be from a toddler with a stick. None of the training he had amounted to more than the basics in front of a master. Whether he was watching her or watching the sword she moved with a dancer’s grace, never being where his sword was and always being in position to cause the maximum amount of pain. One slice from her and he was back on the defensive again, struggling to angle his blade to protect himself without enough of a break to counter attack. Bruce fights to control his breathing and tries to create an opening.

Rose is still going easy on him. If this wasn’t training his head would have rolled in under a second. As it is Rose’s blunt criticism when he could barely breathe without being disarmed made the experience more painful.

 “You’re still thinking with your fists.” Rose says and, with a flick of her wrist, leaves a line of red on his cheek. “A sword is a _tool_ , not just a sharp stick.”

Bruce nods and tries to adjust. The Rose Blade was practically part of Rose’s body; he felt like a drunk in a bar-fight meeting a black belt for the first time. Unlike the clumsy length of metal in his hand Rose’s sword always seemed to go where she wanted it to, often before she seemed to know where that was. It was both thinner and shorter than his practise sword but no matter how hard he tried it was never in a position where he could overpower it. It always seemed to be darting almost playfully under his guard and leaving wounds that burned like fire. Bruce swears the tip of the sword traces a figure eight around his wrist before catching the underside of the cross-guard and hooking the blade out of his hand. The sword leaps across the arena like a silver fish and lands in the sands on the opposite side of the arena.

Rose doesn’t need to sweep the blade under his chin to tell him he’s lost. Instead she cleans his blood from it in one deft movement, leaving the blade looking shining and untouched.

“Pick up your sword.” Rose says and waits for him to walk over to retrieve his blade.

Bruce catches his breath for a moment, his legs feel like lead as he plods his way over to the fallen blade. He has to focus to keep a tremble from his aching muscles. Drops of blood mark each step. He breathes out in a shuddering sigh. Thankfully Rose kept each cut shallow enough that blood-loss wasn’t a concern but the exertion was making his vision sharpen and things seemed uncomfortably hyper-defined. He is far too aware of the sound of his own breathing echoing in his ears. As he reaches for his sword he can feel every muscle in his arm tense and release with the movement. His fight-or-flight reflex pours useless information into his ears. He is keenly aware of every grain of sand, every spot of bloodied earth, every scuff and scrape their feet have left in it as the remains of desperate charges and brutal counters. Rose stays standing in the centre of the arena. Her stance is light but ready.

‘ _My sword is an extension of my body._ ’ Bruce tells himself as he closes his hand around the grip of his sword and charges in the same, smooth motion.

Sand crunches underfoot as Rose darts forwards to meet him. Bruce keeps the sword close to him, not swinging in a wide arc for the same reason he wouldn’t punch wide. He focuses on the sword’s tip and trying to unite it with flesh. He stabs out with it, focusing on the length of the blade as an extension of his arm to direct and add force to the strike. Rose leans in towards the blade, it slides past her head, barely an inch from her cheek and pain explodes in Bruce’s chest. He chokes and tumbles to the ground as the air is forced from his lungs. Vomit rises in his throat and he spits it out rather than choke and draws in air in a long, desperate gasp. For a second his vision blacks out entirely and he has to fight to hold onto consciousness. The sword hangs limply from his hand. Bruce’s legs shake as he forces himself back upright and forces his fingers to curl more firmly around the grip. He isn’t sure where she’s hit him, his entire chest is a flare of pain.

Rose watches him dispassionately with the point of the Rose Blade turned towards the ground.

“Stop fighting to win, in the real world this isn’t a fight you can win.” Rose scolds him.

Bruce grunts. His arms feel like lead and he can feel the beads of sweat running down his face.

“If I’m not fighting to win what am I fighting for?” He asks and charges.

Rose rolls her eyes in the little way that meant she was thinking ‘men.’

“To escape.” She brings the blade down on his forearm, leaving a new line of fire against the aching muscle.

“To distract.” The Rose dodges his clumsy swing and cuts into his chest.

“To put off losing until it won’t hurt as much.” The pommel of the sword slams down on his head and his ears ring. He loses his grip on his sword and it tumbles to the ground.

Rose kicks his blade back to him.

“Pick up your sword.” She orders.

Bruce grits his teeth against the desire to leave the damn thing where it is and pass out. His body is a symphony of pain, from the aching pain of his bones, to the burning pain of his muscles, to the stinging pain of his cuts. Parts of him are trying to defensively disassociate from his body and though the numbness is welcome Bruce knows it will hold him back.

What is he doing, why is he fighting? Damian had ordered Rose to fight him so he was fighting the Rose. Everything was a test with the League of Shadows, _everything_ , and you only found out when you passed what the test actually was.

Bruce keeps his eyes on Rose as he slowly bends down to pick up the sword. He resists the urge to wipe the sweat and blood from his face. His clothes were equally filthy, he would just be spreading it around. As he grips the blade’s hilt he stops trying to apply his training and lets the animal mind direct his actions.

There is a complicated moment. Flashes of color and movement flicker across his vision, barely impacting on his memory, and it’s not until afterwards that he can draw meaning to them, like finding the pictures in a cloud. The animal mind didn’t see the arena or the sand, what it saw was a flash of thigh, a glint of steel, the tightening of fingers on a hilt. Working out how each fragment fit together was an act of active detective work on his part. Bruce pauses and tries to work out how he had ended up on his back in the sand.

“Not gonna lie Kid, that would scare the _shit_ out of the average swordsman.” Rose tells him. A small curl of hair has fallen out of her tight braid and rests limply on her forehead as she catches her breath. “Did Cassandra teach you that?”

Bruce shakes his head then wobbles a hand to indicate ‘Kind of’. He is still holding his sword but the tip of the Rose Blade is dipping into the indent of his breastbone, pressing in enough to draw a fat, round bead of blood to the hollow at the base of his throat. Rose removes the sword and her foot from Bruce’s chest and offers a hand to help him up. Bruce attempts to take it but his arms are two lumps of dead meat and he can’t move them. He gives his head a little sad shake and Rose sighs.

“Fine, we’re done for today.” She says and with barely a whisper slides the Rose Blade back into its sheath.

Rose grabs his unresisting hand and with a rough yank tugs him back to his feet. Bruce teeters briefly as he struggles to regain his balance and the head rush makes his vision darken. Rose shakes her head.

“Look that was a good idea in principle.” She says. “But look how weak it’s made you.”

She shakes her head.

“That form is good for putting pressure on an opponent at close quarters but it is all attack and no defence. If I was being serious, I would have skewered you like a shish kebab.” Rose tells him. “Use that in a real fight and you’ll get popped by the first guy with a gun who doesn’t mind firing into mêlée. You get tunnel vision, forget your environment and you’re a dead man walking. Watch that. As it is I’d say that form has no use in an actual fight.”

Bruce nods and focuses on calling feeling back into his arms. One finger twitches.

“You said...” He starts to say and his voice croaks and breaks before he can says more than two words.

“When two swordsmen fight the winner is the better fighter.” Rose says. “But every swordsman hates fighting an amateur because you never know what they’re going to do. It didn’t make you a better fighter, it made you a hell of a lot less predictable though.”

Rose grabs a bottle of water from the rough wooden benches at the outer rim of the arena. She empties half of it over her head and takes a swig of the rest. She tosses another bottle to Bruce. It bounces off his chest and rolls in the sand. Bruce frowns and forces his stiff arms to move enough to pick it up. It is blessedly cold. He undoes the top with a mechanical stiffness and empties it over his head. The ice-cold water chills his skin and numbs the fiery pain of his wounds.

“Why can’t I move my arms?” He asks. His legs were aching with a bone deep pain but he could still move them.

“Particularly exhaustion, mostly me.” Rose confesses. “I hit a lot of pressure points. That’s another thing, you were full of openings, never sacrifice your body for a hit, they add up and some enemies will use poisons. If you let an enemy disable your arms, even if you win the fight, you won’t win the next one. Look at you, a fresh recruit could kill you right now.”

“I think a stray dog could kill me right now.” Bruce groans. “Or a determined cat. I was useless.”

He manages to raise the bottle to his lips and gulp down enough to cool the fire under his skin.

Rose smiles.

“I didn’t say it was useless, you just need to refine it.” She says. “You need to have a part of yourself that is paying attention to things and can think ahead. That’s the weakness of berserkers, they neglect strategy, they can’t think outside the moment. You’re going to have to be better.”

Rose stands.

“Pick up your sword.” She says.

Bruce gives a long, heartfelt groan. A smile dances across the Rose’s face.

“Stop whining, this is Damian’s orders.” She says. “You have it easy, do you know how Damian learned to swordfight?”

Bruce shakes his head. He’s gathering as much strength as he can from this brief break.

“As soon as Damian could walk Ra’s put a sword in his hand and told him to fight, then his father fought him to the death. Every time he lost he was revived in the Lazarus Pit and told to fight until he won.” Rose tells him. “So you’ve got nothing to complain about.”

Bruce winces in sympathy. From what he had been told death was almost preferable to the pain of a Lazarus Pit’s resurrection. Once it had experienced a body would do anything to not feel that pain again, often killing without mercy to escape it. Damian was one of the very few who could use the Pit without losing his mind, as he said he had a lot of practise.

“How did _you_ learn how to fight?” He asks.

“You’re stalling Bruce.” Rose points out, effortlessly deflecting the question. “Pick up your sword.”

Bruce sighs, pushes aside the screams of his body, and reaches for the sword. He knows what Damian would say; pain is just another message sent by your body, in the real world no-one will stop fighting you because you are tired and hurting, that was when you needed to fight harder.

He picks up his sword. He’s really starting to loathe the simple piece of metal. All true shadows carried swords, even Colin had a broadsword that looked like something out of Highlander. Damian said as they were knights of the world, paladins of the planet and protectors of the peace, and it was fitting they carried the sword as the symbol of the execution of justice. Shadows-in-training, formally called shades, used training blades that were all exactly alike; when they fully became a shadow a new blade was forged for them alone and given to them in the Naming Ceremony where they chose their operating alias. Even those shadows that rarely used them kept their blades on them when they were teaching as a reminder that they were full members of the League of Shadows.

Bruce tightens the grip of his aching fingers and breathes out slowly. He doesn’t make an attempt to close the distance between him and Rose yet. He wills himself to ignore the pain, it was just another message. Rose has told him a bit more about what this test is. He isn’t fighting to win; he’s fighting for control.

Breathe in, breathe out. Let yourself disassociate but don’t freeze. The animal mind wants to survive, let it guide your movements but don’t let it rule your head, you are leading it towards a goal, it is not leading you. This isn’t a test of technique, this is a test of discipline. He’s fighting a much stronger opponent; the animal mind wants to go down fighting, he can’t let it. He is not fighting to win, he is fighting to delay, to distract, to put off losing until it doesn’t hurt as much.

Breath rushes from Bruce’s lungs. His body still sings with pain but it has ceased to become relevant to him, any more than the color of the sand was. The sword was a part of his body, a mechanical system of organic pulleys and levers he is guiding into movement. He tries to let his spirit detach from his body without floating free at the same time he tries to become Hamask. He’s not fighting to win, he’s not fighting to win…The sound of his breathing echoes in his ears, as distant and impersonal as the sound of waves beating on a distant shore or the wind whistling through a cave. Bruce lets his body raise the sword.

Rose darts in and closes the distance in two steps. He can feel the pressure of a building panic in his skin, the animal mind full of fear wanting to lash out and defend itself. He can feel it trying to narrow his focus. He struggles on the wavering edge between leaving his body entirely and blacking out. The Rose darts in and he can see this time, he’s not blacking out into the disconnected flashes of memory, he can still see his surroundings but he is letting his body move to defend itself. He raises the blade and Rose grips his arm, adjusting his stance to be the most protected.

“Better.” She says. It takes a few seconds for the sound to register as a word. “Keep your stance loose, you need to be ready to adapt to the situation as it changes.”

Rose moves slowly, as if teaching a dance, as she directs him through a few poses his classes hadn’t touched on.

“Learn these stances.” She orders, as if speaking directly to the terrified animal impulse within him. “They will keep you alive.”

Bruce manages a nod. In one fluid movement he barely manages to see the Rose knocks him down and breaks his trance. Pain rushes back to his body in a red-hot wave. Bruce swears he can feel his organs being cooked.

“Put your sword down.” Rose orders. “I can’t teach you anything more today without causing some permanent damage, and Damian says I’m supposed to avoid that.”

Bruce gratefully lets his stiff and aching fingers uncurl from the grip of the sword and let it tumble into the sand for the final time today. There is blood on the grip and speckles of torn skin on his palm from the effort of holding it. Rose smirks and shakes her head, as if silently saying ‘kids these days’ and sits down.

“So did I pass?” Bruce asks.

Rose shrugs non-committedly.

“Your sword-work is still terrible. I wouldn’t hire you for a $1.50.” She says. It was known among the shades that Rose led the League's arm of what was called 'Moral Mercenaries', matching Shadows with deserving targets that already had a price on their head and taking her cut off the top.

“I wouldn’t either.” Bruce says and Rose smiles.

Bruce hauls his aching body into a sitting position. He's looking forward to a cold bath in the spring that ran through the fortress. He breathes out a soft sigh and picks up the training blade again. He looks it over to make sure it isn’t chipped or damaged in any way. Aside from some bloodied sand clinging to the blade it is unharmed, it should be, he hasn’t hit anything with it. He cleans it off and sheathes it.

“Okay, I’ll bite, why did Damian ask you to train me?” Bruce asks, grateful to finally be able to put his sword away. “My sword work isn’t the best, but it isn’t the worst either. There are plenty of students that would make better use of a one-on-one sparring session.”

“Damian wants to know if you’re ready.” Rose says.

“Ready for what?” Bruce asks.

Rose pauses and seems to look up at the shadows that lurked in the corners of the room as if they might be listening.

“...The final test.” She confesses, seemingly accepting that this duty has fallen to her. “Graduation.”

Bruce unwisely sits bolt upright and a screaming flare of pain lances up his spine. He winces at the pain.

“Graduation?” He asks. “You mean becoming a full member of the League of Shadows? Damian wants me to _join_? But I haven’t been here for long enough…” Bruce frowns. “Have I?”

Rose smiles a small amused smile.

“Time in Nanda Parbat is…fluid, true. I grant you more time has passed here than in the outside world, even if it doesn’t seem to be aging you.” She says. “But a shade becomes a shadow when Damian says they are ready.”

Rose frowns. She's clearly uncomfortable being the one to explain this. She stands and turns away from him.

“Forget I said anything.” The Rose orders. “It won’t change my report to Damian.”

Bruce clears his throat.

“What…What do you think?” He asks.

“You embarrassed my baby brother, so I’m already inclined to like you.” Rose points out.

It was well known that the Wilson’s sibling rivalry had a sizable body count. It was also well-known that of the three Grant was the least talented sibling, which is the only reason Bruce had managed to surprise him. Rose would have never underestimated a hostage, no matter how young they were.

“Damian didn’t ask me to test your sword skills.” She eventually says. “Four years is the average time a shade is trained before we see if they can be a shadow. Sometimes Damian asks for them to take the test sooner, if they’re had prior training. Not often but sometimes. It’s dangerous but…”

She sighs and for a moment Bruce sees a world-weariness far older than she looked reflected in her eyes.

“None of this is real Bruce.” Rose says solemnly. “This is all practice, make-believe like two kids brawling in the dirt playing at swords. You can do anything you want when you’re training but it doesn’t really mean anything.”

“I know.” Bruce says with a soft sigh and a small smile. “I imagine the real world is short on sword duels. The romantic in me is disappointed.”

“In the real-world people die.” Rose replies bluntly. “No-one holds back because someone might be seriously hurt and no-one does what you think they’re going to do or what you think they should do. It isn’t structured and it isn’t organized. There is no discipline, no order and no rules.”

She pulls on the mask that covers the upper part of her face, covering both eyes with a protective one way mesh. It makes her look a lot more like the hardened mercenary feared in so many countries

“When the training wheels come off, well, that’s when you find out if you can really make it out there. Not everyone can. Shades die taking this test. They get overconfident or they get carried away. They didn’t have what it takes to make it in the real world. You fail the final test and you die.” Rose's voice is clipped and professional. "Sometimes...to the examiner. We are asked to kill shades that show they...are not one of us."

She turns back towards him.

“I have other students to attend to.” She reminds him.

“Rose…” Bruce asks quietly. “What is the final test? I have to know.”

There is a pause as what’s left of Rose's expression turns bitter, seemingly resenting Damian for leaving this task to her. For a moment Bruce think she isn’t going to answer before some tension fades from her muscled shoulders.

“A hunt.” Rose tells him. “A real manhunt for a real target. No safety nets. No second chances. Just you and them, finding out if you’ve got what it takes.”

“Two men enter, one man leaves?” Bruce asks somewhat jokingly as he feels his heartbeat thud in his chest.

“Sometimes no-one leaves.” Rose tells him. “It isn’t a pass/fail test. It is a win or die test. Kill or be killed.”

Bruce takes a deep breath and swallows the knot of tension that has formed in his throat.

“And do you think I’m ready for it, this final test?” He asks quietly.

For a moment the Rose smiles and it is a smile as cold, sharp and pitiless as the curved edge of her blade.

“I think you’re going to find out.” She says. “Be ready, Bruce, be better...”

She draws the Rose Blade. There isn’t as much as a whisper of sound but the light of the arena makes the blade's edge gleam like a crescent moon.

“Or be dead.”


	18. Hong Kong

Bruce dealt with his problems like an oyster dealt with grit; going over it again and again until he had smoothed out what was irritating him.

He had done some research through the League of Shadows’ library for hamrammr. Searching through centuries worth of books and scrolls had taken him all his free time for a month but he had found it in the books on Viking Úlfhéðnar, the Wolf Coats, under Bersærkergang, the root word from which the English term ‘going berserk’ was derived. He’d followed a paper trail from runic tablets to modern scientific papers that linked this state to the Fight-or-Flight or Acute Stress Response in sufferers of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Damian was training him to be a berserker.

A controlled berserk state sounded like an oxymoron, but it was _working_. Damian had been right when he called it the animal mind. It had a narrow focus, it _could_ follow a simple directive; find this person, go to this place, take down this target, or more often simply survive. Bruce had found to get the most out of it he needed to give a series of commands to his animal self, switching from a state of absolute focus on one task to absolute focus on the next. Most importantly it could be trained; there was nothing it wouldn’t do to complete its task, but the rest of his training had helped there. Now he could identify threats better he could prioritize them, and that meant he could train the animal mind to ignore things below a certain threat threshold. It had taken a lot of training and practise but it kept him from hurting innocents as he tried to reach his goal. Battle trance was the right term for it. The League of Shadow’s teacher in unarmed combat, Colin Wilkes, had been one of the test subjects for Venom. He was a big man with broad shoulders and big hands. He’d taught Bruce exactly how to take someone to pieces and when it was best to take a beating.

What he had learned from the experience was this; in the end there was no difference between human flesh and that of any animal. It tore just as easily under pressure. A knife through someone’s chest slid as easily as a knife through uncooked steak. They even looked alike, where was the difference?

The difference was in the flayed man’s dead eyes…

Cassandra gives him a small frown.

In the months he had spent as her pupil Bruce had learned a lot about how people spoke without speaking. In her first language his teacher was eloquent, even poetic at times. Without the constraints of spoken language she could communicate easily; her ‘speech’ was warm and kind, even motherly. That look was a small scolding and if it was spoken Bruce knew what it would say: _You are thinking too loud._ To her it was literal; his inward focus was projected outwards in a way that others could pick up on.

Bruce apologizes with a half-smile and a fractional raise of his shoulders as he turns his attention back to the task at hand. In only a few weeks under Cassandra’s instruction he had fallen into her method of communication. How wasteful spoken language seemed compared to it, how clumsy the exaggerated motions to flap meat and force air into sound were when you could read people’s honest hearts without them.

Bruce felt safe with Cassandra; there were no words to be misspoken, he didn’t have to fight his sentences into shape, afraid of saying something wrong and failing to convey his intentions. There was only an honest communication.

 _You like it here_ Cassandra says as her lips curl into a faint smile. It isn’t a question; she doesn’t need to ask him. She just knows. Bruce appreciates that.

 _I do._ Bruce replies with his own faint smile. _As do you (?)_ He makes a statement with a small shift in posture but the small delay shows some uncertainty. While he is still making a statement he’s also subtly asking if he is reading her correctly.

 _I do._ Cassandra confirms with her faint smile mimicking Bruce’s own, confirming both the statement and his read of her. _This place is like a second home to me; this city is the jungle I know._

Bruce conveys in the set of his shoulders the love he feels for the jungle he knows; without speaking he tells her of smoky night streets, of proud towers dark on the skyline, of the gargoyles nesting on every rooftop. He tells her of the velvet nights and the dogs in the junkyards howling at the moon and the aching longing in his heart to one day return there and continue his parent’s work to help it. He tells her of the struggle that the people went through every day; the fight to be better. It takes barely a second.

Cassandra smiles and that smile tells Bruce _I know your love, I know your pain, I understand you._

The waitress they had been monitoring approaches their table and with reluctance they both have to switch to a less direct form of communication.

“<Can I get you anything?>” The waitress asks in Cantonese.

Bruce reads her as a matter of course; she was new, less than a week on the job but already starting to tire. She is trying to keep her spirits up, she needs the income from this job and is usually an optimist, but the work is dragging on her. Bruce reads all of this before she finishes her first word. He puts down the menu and adjusts his posture to put her at ease. Cassandra is the only one here who could pick up on the faint tells of how experimental it is to him; he wants to see if he can manipulate her without her noticing.

“<Just Black Tea please.>” Bruce replies in the same language with a deliberate accent. He had been learning other languages since before Nanda Parbat, Dick had been keen on it and the circus had members from many different countries, but always appearing less competent than you were has become habit to him.

“<Your Cantonese is very good.>” The waitress says with a small grateful smile.

“<Thank you.>” Bruce says and returns the smile.

“<Jasmine tea. Please.>” Cassandra’s voice falters in any language and its tone is flat.

Bruce notes the shift in the waitress to confused and wary at her uneven speech pattern. He also picks up on the faint tense of accustomed hurt in his teacher’s shoulders. He feels a stab of pity for her and catches from his teacher’s gaze that she has noticed. He starts to apologize but Cassandra stops him with a comforting look, reassuring him that she doesn’t feel insulted by his pity. The waitress is entirely unaware of the rapid conversation that has just taken place between them as she jots down their orders, politely excuses herself and leaves.

The two return to their silent conversation and silent observation of the world outside the café.

The more he learned of her first language the more Bruce learned about Cassandra. She wasn’t born as much as commissioned by Talia to serve as her assassin and bodyguard. As the child of Talia’s greatest and most loyal followers her life had been mired in death and blood from her birth. She had been raised without spoken language to learn to read others as her first language, all to serve her future role. Unlike him she was a self-made orphan, she had been made to kill her parents to prove she was the strongest of all assassins. She had gained the name of Lady Shiva from it but defected from the League of Assassins to the League of Shadows when Damian had given her a way out of her darkness.

These days she rarely had to kill but there were things worse than dying and she knew them all. The threat of her involvement was enough to silence most criminals and she was a master in interrogation. She had taught him by degrees how to act and how to lie, he was good enough to fool most, though he was aware he didn’t have the time to learn everything and he would never learn enough to fool her. It was her first language after all, and he was just a beginner.

Tea arrives. Bruce checks scent, color, consistency, the coloration around of the edge of the cup and tests the surface with the tip of the nail to see if the coating on his nails detects any poison. He had been mithridatized against anything he could but it was just a mealtime ritual at this point. Bruce takes a sip of the scalding hot liquid and puts it down as it burns the tip of his tongue.

 _Target spotted._ He says with a subtle tightening in his shoulders. The distinctive bleached blond hair with hot pink and neon green streaks stands out in the crowd, even though at this distance across the packed square it is the size of a pinhead.

 _What are you going to do about it?_ Cassandra fractionally raises an eyebrow without looking up from her tea.

 _I’m going to solve the problem._ Bruce puts his teacup down. _Moving to engage now._

He slips away without a sound. Even though the café is popular and full of staff and customers no-one but Cassandra sees him leave.

Bruce keeps his training in mind as he slips through the square and is seemingly jostled by the random motions of the crowd. Someone watching from above would have to be highly trained to pick up this was a hunt. Here he stood out, but he moved in such a way no-one got a good look at his face, he was just another person in the crowd. He was hidden in the sea of people in the same way the ocean hides a shark.

It felt good to be back in a city. Bruce felt more comfortable with the asphalt under his feet. This was the proper place for a hunt.

He had studied his target well to know everything about what they had done to bring them to the attention of the League of Shadows.

Yazuka, Yamaguchi-gumi, a kyodai or ‘big brother’, he inwardly chants the details from the file, not a boss, not a sub-boss, someone who had a taste of power and wanted more, acting on his own initiative, trying to strike out and get a reputation. The hair was peacocking, trying to stand out from the crowd, drawing attention to himself in equal parts display and handicap. This was someone who _wanted_ to be noticed, part of them wanted to be found out, it was making a clear statement and that statement was ‘come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough’. It was arrogant, it was vainglorious and that meant someone was confident they could beat any threat and secretly terrified they couldn’t.

This was a test, everything was a test, but this was a test of his information gathering skills. The League of Shadows had approved his choice of target but everything they knew about him was information Bruce had gathered. If he had made a mistake, if there was some key fact he had overlooked or he had been misled about the danger, he could die today.

There was an electric thrill to knowing he was hunting alone. This was a true test of whether he could stand on his own two feet.

Bruce had plenty of experience picking fights; he was an expert in judging whether someone was a threat. This one was his personal favorite kind of target; the overconfident bragger who had won a few fights and thought they were invincible, yet to learn that the truly dangerous were the ones that stayed in the shadows. There was a visceral joy in finding someone whose self-esteem was entirely in their presentation and thoroughly ruining their day. The real threats, the ones in the shadows, wouldn’t interfere. If anything they would find it amusing that the brash newcomer was silenced, and grateful he was out of the way while they arranged the world to their liking.

One of the important lessons Bruce had learned from the League of Shadows was the villain code of conduct. The League of Shadows were less ‘villains’ than even that group in Keystone City but there was still something of a metric, one had to have standards after all, that divided those that saw themselves as the rightful rulers of the world and those that simply craved destruction. One of those unwritten rules was this; do not draw attention to yourself. If you were truly skilled your reputation would build on its own as half rumor and half fear. The more you tried to build a reputation of power the less powerful you proved yourself to be. The ones that were truly feared were the ones you couldn’t tell acted at all; the world just seemed to rearrange itself to their liking. That’s what made them dangerous.

His target was dangerous for a different reason. They were no threat to the figures that moved in the shadows, no, the threat they posed was to others, those the shadow figures paid less attention to than the dirt under their feet, the weak, the young and _vulnerable._ People like them loved power, any power, but most of all the power of life and death over someone else, who it was over didn’t matter.

They were what Damian called a wild dog, making up for what they lacked in size and strength with sheer savagery. They would never rule, they didn’t have the patience for it, but they would wound the world around them. Best to stop the disease before it could spread.

Bruce wagers he would win in a head-on confrontation but that wasn’t the way of the League of Shadows.

They had a reputation to uphold after all.

He nudges someone in the crowd, just enough to cause them to shift and bump into someone else in a more noticeable way. People are jostled, causing a small disturbance in front of his target and diverting him on a new path, according to plan.

His target leaves the square and, unseen, Bruce follows them. As they leave the sight of the crowd he puts on his mask. It is in the style called a domino mask, covering his eyes with pure white lenses and streaking black bat wings down his cheeks. It covered enough of his cheekbones to disguise his face. The members of the circus wouldn’t be fooled but anyone else would have trouble identifying him.

He checks his tools. The armor he wore under his clothes was lightweight but could stop a knife blade, if not a bullet.

The League of Shadows stressed the importance of preparing for the unexpected; he had tools at his disposal ranging from ceramic compound blades that escaped metal detectors to explosive mines. How he wanted to complete his mission was up to him; Damian cared about the result, not the method. He had carte blanche to be as slow as he liked in taking care of his target as long as he wasn’t excessive about it.

Bruce savors their unwariness as he stalks his prey. The alleyway was a brief passage between two busier streets, formed by the backs of two stores in a small tight corridor. His target looks up, wary of an ambush, and looks right past him hidden in plain sight.

Bruce smiles and a blade drops into his palm.

His target looks ahead, taking his eyes off his surroundings. Big mistake. The trap is sprung.

“<Where are you going Aniki?>” A voice behind the target asks in perfect, cheerful Japanese.

When the Yakuza member turns to see who it is there is no-one there.

He reaches into his jacket for a weapon and the air whispers as if disturbed by the flapping of wings. A dark shape wings from the shadows and bites into his hand.

The Yamaguchi-Gumi Kyodai jerks his hand back to get a look at what he has been hit with.

With his uninjured hand he pulls the bloodied black blade from the back of his hand. It is more bat than bird, the sleek silhouetted shape of the shuriken resembling a bat in flight.

He presses his back to the wall, using the plastic recycling bin that took up half the alleyway as cover as he turns towards where he heard the voice and tries to draw his weapon with his non-dominant hand. He raises the handgun, clicking the safety off with his thumb as he takes aim at the end of the alleyway.

A looped cord of braided leather drops over his neck from behind and pulls tight. He chokes and drops his gun, clawing at his neck to try and loosen the cord, and his attempts to free himself sends him backwards, following the path of least resistance. He falls over backwards, the noose loosening enough to allow himself to breathe as he hits the pavement. He throws out his arms to steady himself so he doesn’t hang himself and something like a bola entangles them.

A wire lashes his feet together and before he has time to breathe he is hauled upside down, hanging like a side of beef from a meat hook. The sudden jerk comes to a stop at eye-height of the figure in black holding the noose like a dog's leash. The leather cord is made for hanging, not garrotting, and it presses against his throat with just enough room for him to breathe and talk. The knot rests at the base of his throat; a single sharp pull will tighten it enough to strangle him.

A blade presses against the soft flesh of the underside of his throat, the same matte black as the blade he had pulled from his hand. The figure holding him watches him with eyes unreadable behind the white lenses of its mask and a bird-like tilt of curiosity to its head.

“<You’re a Gaijin! A Ninja Gaijin.>” he says in surprise.

A smile spreads across Bruce’s face. It is far from reassuring. He dances the tip of the blade over his prey's jugular vein, flowing with the natural movement of the man's throat. It would be easy, only too easy, to apply a little pressure and bleed him out like a slaughterhouse pig. He should do it now, quickly, before his prey started to squirm.

How frail a human body was, just another 100 pounds of hanging meat, no different to any other animal. Bruce applies a hair more pressure and skin parts around the edge of his knife. Beads of scarlet blood merge and flow over the dark metal. His target clears his throat and his fear reads clear in every part of his body as he tries to go for intimidating.

“<Do you know who I am?>” He growls, trying to sound dangerous and instead sounding like a tiger in a trap.

“<I do.>” Bruce says. He barely hears the words. He is focused on the sight of red blood welling up around the blade. How fine the line was between injured animal and cooling meat…

A sudden burst of memory hits him like a punch to the gut, a memory he hadn’t thought of in a very long time.

His father.

Dick was about as cuddly as a teddy bear, like most of the circus he hugged to say hello, and was one of the few people Bruce didn’t mind sharing his personal space with. Compared to that his memories of Thomas Wayne were of a cold and distant figure. A doctor was always busy, it left little time to play with his son. There had been times when Bruce doubted his father loved him at all.

He remembers a time when he had skinned his knee falling out of a tree. He had sat there in the dirt and cried, the pain hadn’t been anything noteworthy, he just wanted it to be noticed. Thomas hadn’t shown any sympathy for the pain, Bruce suspected his father knew he was exaggerating it for attention, but he had carefully cleaned the dirt from the wound with a stinging disinfectant and covered it with a band-aid. He had taken Bruce by the hand and led him back into the house where he had taken down one of the massive, heavy reference books from the top shelf in the study and showed it to him.

Bruce remembered the pictures, he hadn’t been expecting pictures, but they had been brightly gleaming in reds and blues and ivory white. The skeletal system, the nervous system, the circulatory system and the muscular system. Four pictures that laid bare what a human was under their skin.

Thomas had told him that is what everyone looked like under their skin as he had named each system for Bruce. His father had told him about what a wonderful thing a human was; in some ways vulnerable and in some ways strong, formed of and supported by systems. Everything that made a human a human was a system.

Bruce meets the eyes of the predator turned prey, and in that moment, he realizes this too was a system. The big fish ate the small fish and those with power over others used it for their satisfaction. The only difference between his actions and that of his target was who had been on the other side of the equation. Fox eats rabbit and eagle eats fox. The apex predator wasn’t any better; they were just at the top of the food chain.

It was a system and the remembered voice of Thomas Wayne fills his head. A doctor did no harm; if a system was broken they fixed it.

He pulls the blade back. It is hard, harder than it should be. Part of him cries out to forget the time in his life when he was loved, let the human part of him die and become a monster. It was the same part of him that wanted to die when the Owls took him, something hurt and angry and afraid of feeling, that wanted to curl up in the dark and switch off its mind so it couldn’t be hurt anymore. It was part of him, it would always be part of him, but it _wasn’t_ him. It was an injured animal, lashing out and afraid, desperate for control and power to protect itself. It was too easy to give it control. It was the coward’s way out to let it overwhelm him rather than face it.

The lessons Damian had drummed into him surface in his thoughts. Discipline, in all things, control. The animal mind was not evil, it was dumb and needed to be commanded. When you let the animal mind dominate, you ended up with something like the man dangling in front of him.

He wasn’t going to be a part of this system, he wasn’t going to feed more lives to this cycle of blood and violence; he was going to change it. To change a broken system, you reached out and you reached down. People could surprise you if you just gave them a chance. Dick had taught him that.

“<The League of Shadows know what you did to Tomoyo and her little sister. They know where to find the bodies. They know when you are asleep. You will make restitution or an onryō comes for you. This is your second chance at life; don’t waste it. The League of Shadows is watching you.>” Bruce says. He picks up the gun and, with a deft twist of his hands, disassembles it. "<I am a warning.>" He says. "<You only get one.>"

He cuts the rope. his target falls.

He thinks of Thomas Wayne with Carmine Falcone’s blood on his hands, the blood of life not the blood of death. Every life has value Bruce, he had said, no-one has the right to decide otherwise, no matter who they are.

 _I do not stand in judgement_ , Bruce vows, _no-one has that right, not even me._

He leans on the wall and takes a deep breath as his target runs. He looks up to where Cassandra sits in the shadows, watching him.

 _Have I failed?_ He asks her with his eyes alone.

 _To some, maybe._ Cassandra says with a small smile. _But you have not failed me._

She reached down a hand towards him. Bruce takes it. They return to the café. His tea is still warm.


	19. Rama Kushna's Peak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was added retroactively for those confused by the notifications.

For the last time Bruce returns to the ancient streets of the city of Nanda Parbat, aware this is the last time he is going to feel the time-worn stones under his feet. The buildings made by hands long since dead have become as familiar to him as the caravans of the circus. As he passes through the great stone gate he looks up to the massive slab that formed the crosspiece of the torana where every shade for generations had climbed to add their own mark to the topmost stone. His own mark was there at the very peak. It would be there no matter what happened to him now. In the years to come more student shades would climb the gate to make their own mark and they would see it and know he had been there. Bruce swears to make that tiny scratch in the stone mean something.

The shades that had passed their final trial return one at a time. Most stand alone in silent contemplation, a few close their eyes and mediate on what they have done. Some are talking with each other or even laughing and joking. A few are trembling and pale with faces drawn and dark eyes glazed and unseeing. Their attending shadows had melted away into the darkness of their namesake, leaving the city to be filled by only the surviving graduates. One by one they shuffle in the gates until the courtyard is filed with the sounds of soft conversation, like the twittering of a flock of tiny songbirds.

After them the bodies arrive, covered in simple shrouds of white linen so their faces can’t be seen. Bruce watches the first body be carried through the gates and wonders who was underneath the sheet. He tries to hold himself from marking the faces of the rest of his class, putting a mark on a mental checklist as to who has survived. It was bad enough to think that some might end up opposing the Justice League without judging the dead.

There would be no celebration, there would only be a funeral. The prayer bell would toll not just for those shades whose mistakes had been fatal, but also for those who had been cleansed so the world may live, in hopes death may clean the stain of evil from their souls. There would be a time of rest and contemplation when those who were injured could treat their wounds. The graduation ceremony was quiet and somber. It was a recognition of the sacrifices of the student taking a necessarily unpleasant burden on themselves, not a celebration of their skill at dealing death. One by one they would be summoned before the Master of Shadows, to discuss their test and pledge their loyalty to the order. It was then that they renounced the name of the shade and the past that came with it, to take the name of a shadow; a name the world would come to know them by, and received their naming blade to be used in service of the order.

The rumors that flittered around the shades before the final test said the Master decapitated any shade he thought had failed the order and fed the bodies to Goliath. Bruce hadn’t believed it for a second. Damian wasn’t that kind of person and, while Goliath occasionally chewed somebody, he’d always spit them out afterwards.

“Hey Bruce!” A familiar voice calls to him.

Bruce’s frown lengthens, though you’d have to know him well to notice. He drags his thoughts away from his quiet contemplation of the stone city and the returning shades as one calls out to him. No, not a shade anymore, a shadow. Bruce notes the new sword held at the hip, the blade slender and nearly aerodynamically shaped. Both the face and voice are familiar to him; though he tries his hardest not to Bruce mentally checks off the shade as a survivor and starts assessing how much of a threat they are going to be in the future.

“Lawton.” He says bluntly.

Floyd Lawton isn’t put off in the slightest by the icy reception; it was how Bruce treated everyone after all. Of the students he had shared living quarters with, nothing about Floyd was particularly objectionable apart from his specialty in firearms, but that was enough for Bruce to treat him with icy disdain.

“It’s Deadshot now.” Floyd says and pats the sword at his side.

“…Yes.” Bruce says carefully. ‘Congratulations’ would either be too morbid or too bloodthirsty and he doesn’t want to repeat the name out loud.

The newly named Deadshot frowns and Bruce reads that he was expecting Bruce to introduce himself back. Bruce shifts on the spot and aims to convey without words that he clearly wasn’t carrying a sword. Floyd’s eyes widen as he acknowledges the lack of sword and he tries a sheepish grin to restart the conversation.

“Oh, you haven’t seen the Master yet.” He says out loud, which Bruce thinks is superfluous at this point.

He works up the courage to punch Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce turns his head to wordlessly look at the spot, then back at Floyd. He blinks coldly.

“…Do not…” He says quietly, and it isn’t really a threat but Floyd feels a chill run down his spine anyway.

He smiles a brittle smile. Bruce notes the faint traces of a nervous sweat shining on his forehead, the way his eyes seemed to me fixed at a point below Bruce’s, and the way his hand twitches. Floyd was like him a physical thinker and his body is trying to defend himself physically from social embarrassment without knowing how. Clearly he is uncomfortable, but unfortunately he’s also decided that since he’s already started this conversation he’s going to finish it rather than just leave. Bruce turns up the intensity of his glare and Floyd jolts as if startled but continues talking anyway. Pity. He needs to practice more.

“None of us thought you were going to pass, after all you’re all like…you know?” He says, gesturing to all of Bruce.

“I didn’t.” Bruce says.

“Oh, I wasn’t trying to be mean or anything.” Floyd apologizes, misunderstanding what Bruce was replying to. “It’s just that you’re a pretty hard-line guy, we weren’t sure if you’d actually do it or if you’d, you know…”

Bruce’s face is as cold and unreadable as an icy cliff. Floyd’s frail smile breaks.

“Well, it’s good to see you’re still alive.” He stays with a faint tremble and stammer to the words. His dark eyes flit to something over Bruce’s shoulder and widen. Bruce resists the urge to look around, but hones his other senses on the space behind him. “O-Okay, good to see you’re alright, sorry to bother you. I’m gonna go now, goodbye.” Floyd says and shuffles off faster than is strictly polite.

Bruce remains perfectly still, watching him with go with icy, emotionless eyes until the newly blooded shadow ducks behind a building and out of sight. Bruce breathes out and relaxes, his hackles no longer metaphorically up even though there is the now familiar sound of large feet on the stone behind him.

He hates conversations with the shades, particularly small-talk. He never knew what they wanted to hear from him; a group of assassins-in-training had their own bizarre code of ethics made of a mishmash of the group’s different values, shaped by the lives they had led before coming to Nanda Parbat and the lessons of their teachers. Some of them he’d never see as anything but future enemies, others were…undecided enough to hurt. He had wanted to protect them and help them through their pain, but he was still so wounded himself. He had done his best, he hoped it would be good enough…he shuddered to even think that it might be one of _them_ under those white sheets…

There is a snort behind him and a pair of massive, red furred arms strong enough to rival any gorilla pick him up and carefully cradle him against a muscled chest.

“Hello Goliath.” Bruce says calmly, even as he’s lifted off his feet.

The bat-dragon snuffles and sniffs at him as he checks him over for any wounds with his large ears busily twitching. In as much of an expression could be seen in his yellow eyes Goliath seems to be worried about him. Once the bat-dragon is satisfied he is unharmed Goliath snorts hard enough to blow back Bruce’s hair, licks his cheek with a rough tongue, and lifts him onto his back.

Bruce settles between the spreading bat-like wings and takes a firm grip on the thick red fur there. Goliath takes to the skies with one powerful beat of his wings. The slightly rocking flight path had taken some getting used to, but Goliath wouldn’t let just anyone ride on his back. It had taken a lot of fish bribes to avoid being carried like a child when Damian summoned the bat-dragon to bring Bruce to him.

The ground spirals and shrinks below him, reducing the buildings to tiny toy-looking blocks. The bat-dragon banks, pulling away from the places he is familiar with.

“Where are we going?” Bruce asks.

“Graaaaa...” Goliath grumbles. He turns one yellow eye to him and yawns. His fat pink tongue curls over his yellowing fangs before he shakes his head, twitches his ears, and turns back to the horizon

“Ask a stupid question...” Bruce mutters under his breath.

He crouches close against the bat creature’s back to avoid the slipstream and gives him a scratch between the ears. They twitch happily. The bat-dragon’s wings beat hard as he climbs over the rough pathways and the dark forest where Bruce had first become Hamask, headed towards the apex of the mountain. The cold of the high-altitude nips at his skin as snow starts to speckle the ground and grows to a thick icy blanket spreading across the bare rock. Goliath pulls close enough to it for Bruce to feel the cold radiating off it. The bat-dragon snorts and continues to soar upwards. There seems to a mist ahead, a fog that clings close to the rock.

Goliath punctures the cloud layer and the white descends in a thick, cold, damp haze. The bat-dragon's ears twitch and Bruce feels the faint bubble of supersonic vibrations as Goliath echolocates to navigate the cloud. The stones of the mountain loom as dark, hazy silhouettes in the mist like islands in a sea of white. Goliath heads to one spot in particular as the air currents shepherd clouds around the mountain. With a final hard flap of now damp wings the fog falls behind them and they are at the highest point of the mountain; Rama Kushna’s Peak.

The bat-dragon lands, his clawed feet gripping the stone as he bends down to let his passenger disembark. Bruce steps onto the bare rock untouched by the rain of clouds below and takes a breath of the thin air.

“What now?” Bruce asks.

The bat-dragon snorts and shakes like a dog to fling the droplets from his fur and wings. Bruce steps back to avoid the splash. With another snort Goliath sits and begins to groom himself.

“Well I’m here.” Bruce mutters under his breath.

He continues the rest of the climb to the simple shrine at the mountain's peak where a single shaped pillar of stone looked over the entire mountain. Perhaps once it had been carved into a clear shape, now it is simply a column of time-worn stone. There are no markings on the statue’s base to indicate who it was, but everyone heard the stories.

Bruce offers a brief bow of respect to the ancient, weathered statue of the city’s guardian spirit, Rama Kushna, an ancient god of redemption. Suren had said that Ra's had conquered the city of Nanda Parbat many years ago and slaughtered everyone who lived there, but the secrets of the city were held from him. Damian had returned years later to make amends for the sins of the past and been allowed access to the city’s strange time-bending properties. At its base was a set of bones so old they looked like they were about to turn to stone themselves.

“Hello Boston.” Bruce mutters and for a moment feels a chill raise the hairs on his arms. His mother called that feeling a ghost walking through you. He doesn’t really believe in the other shade’s stories of the ghost that could wear other people’s skins to do good, but it rarely paid to offend a deity.

“Hello Bruce.” Damian’s voice drifts from across the peak. “I suppose I cannot call you little killer any last longer.”

The Master of Shadows smiles wryly. However he got to the mountain’s peak, the fur-trimmed robe is completely dry. The flat slab of caramel colored stone he sits on might have once been part of a devotional altar, now it is merely a pile of tumbled stones.

“Come. Sit.” He orders and indicates the rock beside him. “We must talk.”

“I’m a bit damp.” Bruce points out.

“I will not keep you long.” Damian says diplomatically, in a tone that indicates he is not going to stay diplomatic for long if he isn’t obeyed.

Bruce sits, his dripping clothes already making a small dark puddle on the stone. For a moment there is silence before Bruce realizes the Master of Shadows isn’t going to talk until he does.

“Aren't you going to kill me for failing the final test?” Bruce asks, half joking and half serious.

A rare sound disturbs the misty air. Damian is laughing.

“Your view of the world is very black and white Bruce. Do you really think so poorly of me because of my profession?” He smiles. “The League of Shadows does more than kill people Bruce, we are shepherds as much as butchers. While we are the final punishers of depravity we must also serve to protect goodness where it springs. We do not _murder_ , remember that. The death of the deserving is never murder.”

“There were bodies...” Bruce says. “The bodies of your students.” The question he asks without speaking is; did _they_ deserve to die?

Damian frowns.

“It is inevitable but regrettable that some fail the test and thus expire. It is a necessary sacrifice.” He says solemnly with a genuine sadness in his voice. “The world is cruel. Sometimes death is inevitable, no matter how hard we try to prevent it, and believe me we try as hard as possible.”

Bruce frowns, not wanting to accept that answer. Above everything the shades had trusted their teachers, teachers who had sent them to their deaths in some cases. How could those covered bodies all be necessary? How could all that death been _inevitable_?

“What was the purpose of sending me on that test?” Bruce asks him. “You must have known I was going to fail...”

Damian sighs and cuts him off with a brusque wave of his hand.

“Cassandra has told me about your hunt.” He says bluntly. “You didn’t fail.”

“But…” Bruce starts to say and the Master of Shadows cuts him off with a look.

“You graduate by choosing your path. That was the purpose of training you.” He says. “That was the reason Dick sent you to me, still...”

Damian’s jade green eyes meet his, and they are the pitiless eyes of an apex predator.

“I would kill you if you had murdered.” He says bluntly. “If you had lost yourself to rage and taken your pleasure from the pain of others, had you discarded your humanity entirely and become, like them, an inhuman beast glutted on bloodlust and power, Cassandra would have cut you down on my orders.”

“Is that why you sent her to watch me?” Bruce demands to know with fire in his eyes.

Damian shakes his head. His expression is solemn and…sad.

“The purpose of the exam supervisors is to observe, not interfere.” Damian tells him. “And provide if necessary, misericorde to those who have failed.”

“Misericorde…” Bruce thinks of his language lessons. “Mercy?”

Damian smiles a small bitter smile and in a simple flick of his wrist a slender dagger appears in his hand like a conjurer’s trick. It is a fine tipped blade with the handle wrapped in black.

“The misericorde.” He says, indicating how the dagger would cut into the back of the head and sever the brain stem. “The coup de grâce. A quick death, nearly painless. It is an act of mercy. A Shadow does not allow undue suffering.”

“And you've used that?” Bruce asks, his eyes on the gleam across the dagger's edge. “Personally? On a shade of yours?”

“Far too often.” Damian says and with another flick the blade disappears. “You remained human Bruce, thus you remain alive. The only shades that live to be shadows are the ones that know discipline. Control is needed in becoming hamrammr. The animal can never be allowed to overwhelm the conscious mind. When it does you are no longer human, just another wild animal.”

“And you put them down.” Bruce says. “Like animals.”

Damian smiles bitterly.

“That is the way of the Hunter, to destroy dangerous beasts for the safety of humanity.” He says. “Despite what you may think the way of the Hunter is not evil Bruce, though it can be easily turned to it.”

He gestures to the worn statue of faceless and impassive stone. Perhaps a hint of carved eyes are looking down on them, or perhaps it is merely a rock.

“This city exists to find those who would be turned to evil if left without guidance and train them so they use their strengths for good. That is the purpose for which Rama Kushna gives us this city.” Damian says and turns back to Bruce. “The way you have chosen will take you elsewhere. You may not have become a Shadow but I am proud of you.”

Damian rests a hand on his shoulder, it is uncomfortable for both of them but the moment demands it so they both endure.

“You are not a killer Bruce, it is not in your nature, or rather denial of it is in your nature.” Damian says softly, his jade eyes meeting Bruce’s ice blue ones. “I would say it was the result of blood, but I think it was also something you have learned from many teachers. You have your own path now, you have found your center. You may not have become one of my Shadows, but you have _graduated_ Bruce, just to a path that is not my own. Your burden is not my burden. In many ways this will make things harder for you. The path of the Hunter is one I know how to teach. Your path...will take you far from here, to places beyond my sight.”

Damian looks contemplatively out over the cloud sea for a moment of somber silence. For a moment it seems like he is going to end the conversation there, then he draws a deep breath and the Master of Shadows is replaced by a mortal man.

“The world needs those who bears the scales, not just the sword.” Damian quietly says to him, speaking like an uncle rather than a teacher.

Bruce thinks of the intimidating statue in white marble that stood in front of the Gotham courthouse; Lady Justice with a blindfold over her eyes, in one hand a golden scales, in the other a golden sword.

“It is no lesser burden to know mercy, in fact it may be greater. The justice of the sword is swift and final, whereas the justice of the scales requires constant adjustment.” Damian tells him, half advising and half warning. “You will, no, _must_ always be doubtful, always weighing your judgement, always judging yourself as you judge others. Your heart must be resolute. Sometimes what is just will not be legal, and sometimes what is legal will not be fair, and sometimes what is fair is not what is just. It is a difficult path to walk, and easy to fall from. There is no room for weakness or failure.”

“I know.” Bruce says firmly. “And...I’m ready.”

Damian smiles a small sad smile.

“Then I have nothing left to teach you.” He says and kisses Bruce’s forehead in an official blessing. “Go with my blessing little bat, may the world be ready for you.”

He ruffles Bruce’s hair in a heart achingly familiar gesture that he must have picked up from Dick. Bruce can’t help but smile.

“...Thank you Damian, for everything.” He says.

“Richard Grayson is my brother in the bond of the blood oath.” Damian replies and the stiff formality of a general returns to his bearing. “He has spilled his blood into fresh wine and I have done the same and we have drunk to mingle our blood in each other’s veins. He is blood of my blood, sealed by bond, and you are blood of his blood. That makes you family.” Damian says kindly. “And I will always stand to defend my family in bond if not blood. Is it not said that the blood of the covenant is thicker than the waters of the womb?”

“Not often these days.” Bruce says honestly.

“Pity.” Damian replies. “It was a useful phrase.”

He sighs and stands. The fabric falls around his feet in a way that disguises the sheer amount of weapons he keeps beneath it.

“Before we part, I have something I must show you.” He says more formally. “Take a knee and close your eyes.” He orders.

Bruce complies but his highly tuned senses pick up the distinctive noise of a blade being moved. He stays completely still as he hears the Master of Shadows steps closer and the faint whisper of his movement. He trusts Damian.

“This is yours.” Damian says quietly and Bruce opens his eyes.

In his hands Damian is holding a blade in the Japanese style, handle wrapped in matt black leather with ornaments of a darker black metal showing. The handguard is the same sleek, black metal and the circle is shaped from a pair of conjoined bat wings. The sword is sheathed but Bruce can tell just by looking the blade would be as black as midnight and sharp enough to cut a whisper in half.

“It will be waiting for you, if it is needed, and I will be waiting too.” The Master of Shadows says. “As will the rest of my shadows, but be warned, this blade cannot be put down once it has been picked up. Once the blade has been drawn, it cannot be sheathed until it has tasted blood.”

Bruce seals the contract with a solemn nod and Damian rests the blade at the foot of the statue, over the crumbling bones.

“Go say your goodbyes.” Damian says softly. “The next time we meet, it may be as enemies.”

Bruce bows and when he straightens up Damian is gone. He is alone on the mountain top with the sword laying in front of him. The dark metal seems to sing as it calls to his palm; Bruce knows how perfectly it would fit his hand and how it would be light as air and swifter than sound. He knows that if he touches it he will pick it up, and if he picks it up he will use it, and if he uses it blood _must_ be shed. Instead he presses his palms together in prayer and offers a bow to the statue and the bones at its base.

“Please take good care of it for me.” He says, unsure if he is speaking to the crumbling remnant of a ghost story or the time-worn effigy of a long-forgotten god. Either way he feels again the chill of the grave on the back of his neck and takes it as a sign his prayer has been received.

He leaves the black blade calling to him like a needle is called to magnetic north, and steps down from the mountain’s apex. Goliath is still waiting for him and grooming his red fur with a rough tongue. As Bruce approaches he snorts and rolls one yellow eye towards him. The great bat-like beast grunts, clearly conveying without words he is displeased he has just gotten its fur in order and now has to carry Bruce back _down_ the mountain, and gets to his feet as Bruce approaches.

Bruce smiles and gestures for the bat-dragon to lower his head enough to pat. The red-furred beast complies with a snuffle, his ears twitching as he seems to acknowledge that, alright, maybe it wasn’t _so_ bad.

“I’m going to miss you, you great lump.” Bruce says fondly.

The bat-dragon pauses, snorts, and his yellow eyes narrow. His ears go back and his red-furred arms pull Bruce into a tight hug, as the bat-dragon holds him close and whines.

“Awww you big crybaby.” Bruce says and scratches him under the chin. “Are you really going to miss me or are you just going to miss me feeding you fish?”

One of the bat-dragon’s ears perks up at the word ‘fish’ and he gives Bruce’s face a lick, before taking a knee so Bruce can climb onto his shoulders. A brief burst of flight later and another impromptu shower courtesy of the cloud layer and Bruce takes in a deep breath of the clean, mountain air to clear the fuzzy feeling of high altitude breathing from his head. He doesn’t know how Damian deals with it, though he also didn’t know how Damian had gotten there or left so quickly, so he clearly has a lot still to learn.

The forest swims into focus below, the green treetops hazed blue with the distance becoming more defined as they draw closer. Bruce picks out the sun-baked clay of the paths trodden smooth by generations of feet, leading into the city of stone that was older than empires. Goliath lands in front of the rooms shared by the shades with a small grunt of effort. His claws dig scratches into the stone, alongside the scores of other marks made over the years. As Bruce slips off his back the bat-dragon straightens up and folds his wings in.

“Goodbye Goliath.” Bruce says. “I’ll bring you a salmon next time I see you.”

Goliath makes a noise like ‘snorf’ and raises one clawed hand. He rests it on Bruce’s head and pats him, a little clumsily but taking care not to hurt him. Bruce smiles and Goliath’s lips draw back in what was the bat-dragon’s closest approximation of a smile before one ear twitches and he turns towards some signal pitched beyond human hearing. The bat-dragon snorts and pats his head one last time before taking wing. In no time at all he is merely a speck of red on the horizon.

Bruce continues to smile as he steps inside the ancient stone building that had been his home for the last year. Had it only been a year? It feels like it had been longer. The beds stand in silent rows, each perfectly identical with nothing to mark if the shade they belonged to has become a shadow or a corpse. Each has a wooden trunk at the base to hold what possessions the shades were allowed. Bruce pauses in front of his and opens it. He no longer thinks of the fabric inside as the Talon suit, not only because the League of Shadows has helped develop it further than the Court has. Now what had started as the Talon suit is just a skeleton on which he has built something that was his alone. Bruce takes it from its resting place, the cape slipping like the leather of bat wings over his arms, and lays it on the bed. On top of it he rests the black blades he had forged by hand. These would be his armor and his sword.

A shadow lying dark against the wall shifts faintly with the sunlight through the unglazed windows and rests a hand on his shoulder.

“Hello Cass.” Bruce says.

Cassandra steps closer. In her accustomed black she reminds Bruce of a panther, a sleek shadow marked only by its watching golden eyes and the final fatal flash of white fangs. She stood with more confidence in the black; in casual clothing she was something shy and sweet and out-of-place, in black she radiated controlled power and deadly grace.

“You going?” She asks quietly.

“Yes.” Bruce replies.

Cassandra takes a knee so she is at eye-height with Bruce. Her dark eyes focus intently as she fights to marshal sounds to represent her thoughts.

“Sometimes…here…too loud.” She says and wraps Bruce between the eyes with a knuckle, then rests her hand over his heart. “Remember…listen…here.”

Bruce nods.

“I will.” He softly and opens his arms for a hug.

Bruce sees the tension drain from Cass’s shoulders as she no longer has to try and speak. Instead she tries to communicate her feelings through the hug and Bruce tries to return them.

‘ _I will miss you.’_ She says without speaking.

‘ _I will miss you too.’_ Bruce replies without words. “ _You are family to me.’_

‘ _I wish happiness for your future, but I fear for you.’_ Cassandra silently says, resting her hand on his hair. ‘ _The world is dangerous and I cannot protect you.’_

She breaks the embrace, a small, sad smile on her lips, and rests her hand on his shoulder.

“Stay safe.” Cassandra half-orders him.

“You too.” Bruce replies as he meets her eyes. ‘ _I am afraid you will die without me and I will not hear of it until it is too late.’_ He adds silently through his stance. He would never say it out loud; he was in a way afraid that voicing his worries might draw the attention of some malevolent god to make them true.

The assassin called Lady Shiva smiles the sad smile of someone who can’t quite believe someone is worried about _her_ safety, and flexes.

‘ _Do not fear for me.’_ She says wordlessly. ‘ _If Death comes for me I will punch Death in the face.’_

Bruce grins.

‘ _I will try to punch Death too.’_ He silently replies with an answering flex.

Cassandra ruffles his hair with a hand classed as a deadly weapon.

‘ _I can punch Death for the both of us.’_ She says with her small smile.

‘ _We’ll punch Death together.’_ Bruce adds with an answering grin. ‘ _So I’ll stay safe if you stay safe, right?’_

 _‘Of course Bruce.’_ Cassandra’s tender smile says and more softly, or perhaps in the metaphor, quieter she adds. ‘ _I will not disappear.’_

Bruce isn’t sure what to say; his feelings are a complicated tangle and he can’t think straight, let alone try and communicate. His body language dissolves into an unreadable mess, he freezes defensively like a deer in the headlight which is, for their unvoiced conversation, being rendered speechless.

None the less he accepts the hug from Cassandra that is the equivalent of a gentle voice saying ‘ _there, there, everything is going to be alright.’_


	20. Hub City General

This was the side of hero work the public never saw, Dick thinks as he looks down at the hospital bed. You’d think after so long it would get easier seeing someone pale and still, surrounded by a life-giving tangle of plastic tubing. It didn’t. It got harder.

Tim sits in the one chair provided for hospital visitors; he’s been there for a few hours now. The pseudoderm mask lies on his lap and he breathes out a sigh, sweeping his fingers through his chemically disguised blonde hair. He’s looking at the ceiling rather than the bed and his eyes are blank and unseeing.

Dick knows what he’s thinking; it’s what he always thought ever since Jason died. He’s taking responsibility like he always does. If it wasn’t for him the person in the hospital bed wouldn’t be here, ergo he is the one who killed him. It’s a terribly dark habit but Tim couldn’t be argued out of it. He always thought he could save everyone, if only he was better, he blamed himself for failing to prevent every hurt. Everyone that got hurt he took the responsibility onto his own shoulders.

The patient had made his own choices, he had fought of his own free will, and knew what the consequences could be. It didn’t make things any better.

Dick stands.

It was a sordid little secret that most hospitals had places like this nowadays; rooms for those whose identities couldn’t be known. The more magically inclined members of the League had developed a memory erasing potion for the staff because sooner or later everyone, whether hero or villain, ended up needing medical attention. The lucky ones got to walk out again. There were far more unlucky ones.

Dick bites back the desire to ask Tim how he’s holding up. Small talk was his accustomed response to terrible situations, he created some distance and joked because the alternative was to feel too deeply, but his irreverence wasn’t always appreciated. Dick wishes he could tell Tim it wasn’t his fault but the world didn’t work that way. Bringing the guilty to justice wouldn’t cure the sick or resurrect the dead.

Yeah, this was the part of being a hero the cameras never showed; sooner or later your number came up. Everyone died and there was nothing you could do to stop that.

Dick is 99.9% sure Gotham is cursed.

He’d spent enough of his childhood with ‘gypsy fortune-tellers’ to be sure that most of what people called magic was just a con that made people feel like they were part of something bigger.

In general, ‘curses’ came under a mental heading of tricks and scams for Dick. Magic in the ‘follow your heart and wish upon a star and all your dreams will come true’ sense wasn’t something he could believe in.

After meeting a few ‘real’ magicians Dick had accepted that there really were some things that couldn’t be explained. There were some strange and twisted things that showed you what you thought of as a safe, solid reality was nothing more than a flimsy delusion protecting you from the capricious, even cruel whims of a universe that cared as much for your beliefs as an elephant did for an ant. Some things defied explanations just to spit on your face with how uncaring and uncontrollable the universe really was.

Gotham’s tendency to kill off its heroes was one of them.

First it had been the Signal, Duke Thomas, he had been before Dick's time, he only knew the name from the papers, he had fought hard and died well in the end. After him had been Jason and technically Stephanie. Then the Order of St. Dumas had sent in one of their own. Dick had tried his hardest not to make the same mistakes with them that he had made with Jason, but in the end Azrael became a serial killer trying to resist his programming, and was gunned down by the police. After him Huntress had gone on the move to find herself and Bluebird had moved to Bludhaven.

When he had been young and naive he had thought that maybe he could be break the city from the Owl's iron grasp with Barbara’s help. The Owls had shown him that even a former Talon wasn’t strong enough to stop them hurting the ones he cared about. Barbara had spent months in a wheelchair, stubbornly forcing herself through surgeries and physiotherapy, and afterwards had told him she wouldn’t be returning to hero work.

Barbara had been right; she’d done so much more good in a police uniform than a hero's one, the city needed at least one decent cop. In the end he had left too. Lonnie was just the latest in the long list of doomed heroes that had tried to help that cursed city and paid the price for it.

With the line of broken dreams so long, Dick had started to take it personally that his childhood hell had become hell for so many others. Gotham seemed to become another monster, made of smoke and skyscrapers, that he didn’t know how to fight. Lonnie, it had seemed, did, and he had fought for real tangible change in the hungry city. Lonnie had been popular enough with the people not to fear walking the streets of Gotham, it seemed fitting in a way that it was answering the Justice League’s call for help was what ended his career. Despite the best efforts of the League to keep him safe from the Owls Lonnie had been no match for the League of Assassins. The curse of Gotham didn’t even have the decency to strike him down in its borders it seemed.

Damian’s warning was timely, without it the situation would have ended much worse than it did. A highly concentrated viral agent was Talia’s weapon of choice. This time she’d chosen pigeons as the carrier. The new bubonic plague, she’d called it, carried by rats with wings. She had fed the birds infected seed in major cities around the country, by the time birds started dropping in enough numbers to be noticed the disease had already started its incubation in human hosts. Lonnie had been one of the first ones infected, it was only through his help that a cure had been created, but he had paid the price. By the time the virus could be stopped the physical degradation had already left Lonnie and thousands of others catatonic. The disease was a wasting sickness, even if Lonnie could be revived his muscles had atrophied to the point he would never walk again. The nerve degeneration meant he would have to have mechanical assistance to breathe for the rest of his life.

Screens hummed and air rasped dryly in the tubes that kept Lonnie alive.

A message pings on one of the screens.

> _Hello Dick. I didn’t see you there._

Yeah, that was definitely creepy. Dick was never going to get used to how scarily smart Tim's ‘friend’ was, though their friendship seemed based in furious political debates, mutual manipulation, and occasionally hitting others with sticks and yelling. Lonnie outsourcing his consciousness to the cloud as an internet ghost while his body was comatose was one of the creepier things Dick had seen from them.

“Hi Lonnie.” Dick says, unable to hide how nervous about this he felt. He looked around the room, wonder what he should be addressing. He turns to Tim. “Can he hear us?” he asks.

> _I can hear you Dick._ The words on the screen change. _Tim helped me access the cameras._

The security camera shifts up and down in its cradle in a mechanical wave.

“Are you...?” Dick starts to ask.

Words appear on the screen far faster than he could speak.

> _I am removing our identities from the footage very thoroughly._

It’s strange how a default text screen none the less appeared affronted. Tim was here, security wasn’t a concern.

> _You don’t have to pity me Dick._ The screen adds. _I knew what the consequences were when I took up this duty. My only regret was that I could not do more._

Dick breathes out a sigh. In some ways Lonnie and Tim could be very alike. In a way this was harder than facing a coffin; there was nothing he could say here. Lonnie hadn’t been his friend, he wasn’t here to see a friend, he was here as a member of the Justice League.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” he asks and the words feel token and dusty in his mouth, forewarning of false promises.

> _There is one thing I must ask of you,_ the words appear all at once with no pause between them, _do not abandon Gotham like you did when Red Hood died._

Dick feels a self-defensive prickle run up his spine, it’s an instinctual desire to defend the actions of his more foolish younger self.

“I will do my best.” He promises.

> **_NO._ **

The word takes up the entire screen in a silent shout.

> _The Justice League will not abandon Gotham again, you will **not** do your ‘best', you will do what’s **right by them**._

“Lonnie calm down.” Tim tells him.

The words repeat, replacing the displays showing heartbeats and brain activity. A few systems let out a brief warning beep before they are overwritten.

> **_Do not abandon Gotham again Do not abandon Gotham again Do not abandon Gotham again Do not abandon Gotham again Do not abandon Gotham again_ **

For a moment the screens flicker and die as they reset themselves and return to their normal displays. Five words pulse gently on the screen Lonnie had first been using to talk.

> _Or there will be retribution._

Tim laughs but it is not a cheerful laugh.

“Are you _threatening_ us Lonnie?” he asks.

A single word appears on screen.

> _No._

A brief pause and it is replaced.

> _I am warning you._

A chill of dread creeps down Dick's spine.

> _I must sleep now, thank you for visiting,_ the screen changes, _please ensure my message reaches the rest of the Justice League._

“...I will.” Dick says solemnly.

The screen flickers and turns off.

Tim sighs and shifts from pinching the bridge of his nose to rubbing at the back of his neck, both nervous gestures to try and bleed out some anxious energy.

“That’s Lonnie for you.” He mutters under his breath. “Need a lift?”

Dick shakes his head.

“I bought the civilian car.” He says.

Tim shakes his head disapprovingly.

“I swear that thing is older than I am.” He says.

“In parts, probably.” Dick agrees with a neutral hum.

“It’s a rolling scrap heap.” Tim says firmly. “You have enough money in your expenses account, do us all a favour and get an upgrade.”

“I like the car, it has personality.” Dick argues back.

“It’s hideous!” Tim argues back.

“Hideous is a personality.” Dick replies and Tim pauses for a moment as a genuine smile sweeps over his face.

“Never let a girl find out you said that.” Tim tells him. He picks up his ‘mask’ and sweeps the malleable synthetic flesh across his features, erasing them like an artist smoothing out wet clay.

He had worked hard on improving the structure of the wound-sealing synthetic skin since he had first discovered it. The breathable membrane was no longer toxic to the bloodstream and he had since handled copyrights and marketing for Synthskin to supply hospitals while keeping the more durable and less mundanely useful Pseudoderm for himself. Add a dash of his collection of hair dyes and he had the best disguise kit short of being a shapeshifter.

Tim sighs.

“Let me worry about telling the League, you just worry about your boy.” He says.

“I am.” Dick sighs. “I am…”

It has been a year since Damian first appeared to take Bruce for training, at least it had on his end. Time was more fluid in Nanda Parbat. If nothing else the League of Shadows knew how to be punctual. He had spent all year worrying, now the day had come the dread he felt was like a perverse inversion of the ‘night-before-Christmas’ feeling he had as a kid.

“What happens if he decides not to...?” Tim trails off, not sure how to ask the question.

“He just won’t come back.” Dick says with a small shrug. “I’m not worried about that.”

“That sure he’s going to choose you huh?” Tim asks.

Dick fixes him with a look.

“No, not at all, I just want him to choose a path for himself.” He explains. He looks down and takes a deep breath to steady himself, more disconcerted than his calm tone suggests. “If that means we face each other as enemies one day, then it is still _his_ choice.”

He doesn’t _want_ Bruce to stay with the League of Shadows, but he should consider it as a possibility. His overprotectiveness had driven Bruce away from him and he will understand if Bruce decides to strike out on his own. Damian was strict and far too fond of his job but he was reliable and Dick knows he could be trusted with Bruce’s safety. Bruce was more capable than Dick gave him credit for, he would be fine no matter what choices he made, even if that choice meant they might one day face each other as enemies. Being Damian’s sworn Blood Brother didn’t mean they weren’t still enemies, just that they had enough of a vested interest in earth to stop the planet being destroyed…

Tim snorts.

“Even _if_ he joins the LOS you’re still not going to fight him.” He points out. “You love that kid too much for that.”

Dick groans.

“Damn it Tim, you’re completely right. I’m going to get beaten up by a fifteen-year-old, I’ve given Damian too much power.” He says and dramatically covers his face with one hand.

“A rookie mistake.” Tim scoffs and gives Dick’s shoulder a playful punch. “It’ll be fine.”

“Tell me that on a day when we don’t have a comatose former colleague demanding we make a human sacrifice to appease the hungry city.” Dick says gloomily.

“Statistically speaking, it’s going to make one on its own.” Tim points out.

“Not helping Tim.” Dick groans.

“Statistics rarely do.” Tim says solemnly. He puts a hand on Dick’s shoulder. “Look, don’t worry about it, I’m sure things will work themselves out, they always do.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right.” Dick says and straightens up. “Moping is never productive, I've got to focus on the things I can change.”

Tim turns towards him. The fleshy mask hides even the faintest traces of an expression in a way that is frankly nightmarish, not that everyone telling Tim how creepy it was could convince him to change it.

“It seems we never have time to talk without minions being involved.” Tim says with a sigh. “You should come for dinner with Steph and me.” He offers.

“I’d love to but the circus is moving out soon.” Dick sighs. “We need to get packed up and cleared out by sunset then its back on the road.”

“Alright, maybe next time then.” Tim says, not holding out any real hope. For both of them the job came first and it was exhausting never having time to relax or chat outside of ‘work’, but if the alternative was leaving people to suffer neither of them could do it. “Stay safe out there.” It was the customary goodbye for those involved in hero work, but it was given extra weight by the circumstances. Anyone could get hurt die. Anyone could die.

“I will.” Dick says as he slips off into the shadows.

He is unnoticed as he leaves the hospital and quickly and efficiently changes back into his civilian clothes. The car isn’t parked in the hospital car park but that was all the precaution he had taken to protect his civilian identity. Tim had beefed up security measures since he joined the league but Dick instinctively shied away from controlling systems after the Owls. Besides, it has been years since he had loved someone without at least _some_ combat training. They couldn’t be used hurt to hurt him anymore…

Lonnie’s words linger like a sour taste in his mouth as he returns to the fairgrounds. Eventually he is going to have to face the whole terrible situation. For now he forcibly bottles up the feelings and puts them aside. He has civilian things to focus on. Nice, normal things…

It’s a nice day, a touch chilly with the wind, but the sky is a beautiful clear blue and the sun is shining. Sometimes the weather had no sense of the occasion.

It had rained the night before. Fat raindrops lurked in the folds of tarpaulins to spill on the unwary with a single tug. The sky now is a clear blue and the ground already dry under the clear glare of the noonday sun. Shadows lay lazy under trailers and sheltered patches of mud. Dick tugs the tarp from a trailer, stepping back in time to avoid the shower of droplets splattering the ground, and starts to fold it for transport.

A dark shape breaks off from the shadows and darts towards his back. The shadowy shape grabs at him and Dick grips it by the outstretched wrist and flips it over his shoulder. It sweeps his feet from under him at the same time and they both collapse on their backs in the dirt.

The shadow laughs and Dick laughs too.

“I missed you Dick.” It says.

“I missed you too buddy.” Dick tells it. “Come on, hug time, bring it in.”

Bruce rolls his eyes but when Dick wraps his arms around him in a tight squeeze Bruce hugs him back just as hard.

“Welcome home.” Dick says with a tender smile.

“…It’s good to be back.” Bruce says quietly.

Dick kisses the top of his head.

“I love you baby bat.” He says. “Come on, let me get a good look at you.”

Bruce smiles as he stands and pulls off the mask streaking dark bat wings down his cheeks. He’s grown into his muscle and his body looks more his own now. He’s gotten back his self-assurance in his stance. His hair has been cropped short but the biggest change is in his eyes; there is no distance in them, no seething rage, no dark emotions lurking under the surface. They are still dark but focused now and gleaming with purpose. Whatever he has been looking for he has found.

“Look at you.” Dick smiles proudly. “You look like a real fighter.”

“I am a real fighter.” Bruce says with a small sarcastic roll of his eyes. “I have been blooded in the hunt. I’ve graduated, Damian said so.”

“As promised, one year of training.” Damian tells Dick, appearing as if from nowhere. One moment there is nothing, in the next he is standing proud on the bare earth of the fairgrounds. He appears to be unarmed and alone, though Dick bets Nobody at least is looking over him.

Dick bows respectfully to the Master of Shadows.

“Thank you for your assistance Master Damian.” He says politely.

Damian snorts.

“And what about my sister, you have fulfilled your end of the bargain?” He asks, ruthlessly cutting to the chase.

“It wasn’t easy but it is done.” Dick tells him. “The League of Assassins is on the retreat for now. You have Tim to thank, he was the one that figured out her distribution method.”

Damian sneers.

“Such a waste of talent.” Damian says with disgust as he thinks of the detective.

“And that has nothing to do with him outsmarting you, right?” Dick’s voice takes on a teasing edge.

Damian bristles.

“Nothing at all.” He snaps defensively.

Bruce grins and exchanges a look with Dick. It is the look shared by most of Damian’s students when the Master of Shadows dropped his impression of the benevolent ruler and acted human about something. He could be so petty sometimes.

“I’ll tell Tim you said hi.” Dick says with a fond smile.

Damian rolls his eyes.

“The Master of Shadows does not say _hi_.” He scoffs. “Enough banalities. As agreed I return the boy to you and ask you to be more considerate of him in the future. He’s as soft-hearted as the rest of you but he has potential. Do not waste it. He has made his decision.” Damian tells him. “You should be proud of him Dick, he is loyal to you.”

“I am proud.” Dick says and ruffles Bruce’s hair.

Bruce beams.

Damian clicks his tongue dismissively.

“My doors are always open, boy.” He says, a fond smile lurking at the corner of his lips. “When you decide you are ready to do what it’s necessary, you will find me.”

“Thank you for everything Damian.” Bruce bows with respect to his teacher.

When he straightens up Damian is gone with not even footprints left to show he had been there.

“That’s Damian for you.” Dick says with a fond sigh. “Never one for long goodbyes.” He pulls Bruce into another tight hug and ruffles his hair. “Aaaah I missed you Buddy!”

“You’ve already said that.” Bruce points out but doesn’t pull away.

“It hasn’t stopped being true.” Dick points out. “I’m just happy you’re here.”

“You’ve said.” Bruce says with a faint smile and winces. “I never got to say goodbye to everyone, they’re going to be so mad.”

“Zenya’s going to kick your ass.” Dick says calmly. “Want a soda?"

Bruce groans.

“Zenya is absolutely going to kick my ass.” He says and takes the offered drink. He pops the tab and drains most of it in a gulp. “Ah artificial sweeteners and preservatives, how I have missed you.” He says with a smile. “I’ve been meaning to ask, how are we going to explain…” He gestures at his outfit. The Talon suit had been augmented with the best the League of Shadows had to offer, it would be a while before he would need to upgrade it.

Dick laughs.

“You ran away from home in Gotham, weird stuff happens in Gotham all the time.” He points out. “I told them you got abducted by a villain and had to spend some time recovering, which is technically true.”

Bruce frowns.

“Isn’t that excuse suspicious, won’t they suspect something about a villain targeting me?” He asks.

Dick shakes his head, still with a small smile.

“Ordinary people get hurt by villain too Bruce.” He points out. “It’s not just the heroes they go after.”

Bruce flinches.

“Right.” He says, feeling both foolish and a little guilty for not thinking of the innocent victims of metahuman conflicts first.

He senses someone approaching and tenses, preparing himself for a fight if it comes to it. He identifies his targets a few seconds before they can see him; Eli, Davey, Sinclair and someone new. He subtly adjusts his position so he can access his weapons if need be. The other three seemed to know her and Dick doesn’t seem to consider it a threat but that just stops him from preparing to attack, it doesn’t mean he trusts them.

His training makes him want to slip back into the shadows and observe but Bruce forcibly supresses that desire. If he starts treating the circus as targets instead of family he would never feel safe anywhere again.

Eli catches sight of him and Bruce is glad he has already not wearing the mask. He’s going to have enough questions to answer as is.

“Hey, Spook’s back!” Eli says and points.

“Huh, thought you’d have a sword.” Sinclair says.

Bruce blinks.

“Why a sword?” He asks.

“Dick said you had a freakout and went to go all eye-of-the-tiger training montage.” Davey says.

“I didn’t put it like that!” Dick protests but laughs to himself at the description.

Davey rolls his eyes.

“Fine, you had a ‘traumatic experience’ and had to go on a ‘journey to find your spiritual centre’ but we all know you ran away, got messed up bad and couldn’t come back until you’d kicked their ass in revenge. We all figured you were going to get buff and come back with a cool sword.” Davey finishes. His tone is surprisingly sincere but he’s smiling so he’s probably joking.

“Why a sword, specifically?” Bruce asks with an amused arch of an eyebrow.

 Sinclair shrugs. “You just seem like a sword kind of guy.” He says.

“It’s his aura!” Eli points out.

“Yeah, his aura.” Sinclair adds.

“I didn’t know sword was an aura.” Bruce says drily but he is starting to smile, just a little bit.

The newcomer hums.

“Auras can be sharp; a defensive aura is a ball of outward facing blades, like a hedgehog.” She points out. “So I guess that’s what they’re picking up on.

“Sorry, no sword.” Bruce says, though he has a lot of weapons hidden on him swords were kept for graduate Shadows. “I’ve got a katar.” He adds.

“What’s a katar?” Eli asks.

“Like brass knuckles but with a knife.” Bruce tells him.

“Yeah, that sounds like you.” Sinclair says with a small frown. “Remember that time he found that guy trying to drown a cat and he put nails between his fingers to punch them better?”

“Bruce!” Dick calls out, sounding scandalized.

“They deserved it!” Bruce calls back. “If the cat didn’t get the point across, he needed to feel some bigger claws.” He mutters under his breath and kicks at the dirt. “Who’s the newblood?” He asks.

The girl he doesn’t recognize leans against the trailer.

“I’ve been here a year, I’m not so new anymore.” She says calmly.

Bruce winces.

“Sorry, that’s my bad.” He apologizes and offers a hand to shake. “Not your fault I’ve been a stranger. I’m Bruce Grayson, Dick’s son.”

“Adopted, right?” The newcomer asks with an arch of an eyebrow as she takes his hand and shakes it.

“Yeah.” Bruce smiles. “Most people don’t pick up on that because we look alike, Miss….?”

“Zatanna Zatara, magician-in-training.” She says with a smile.

“You got a good name for it.” Bruce whistles. “Planning on staying long?” He asks.

 “My dad wants me to take an internship, work the circuit and focus test my individual act so as long as it takes I guess.” Zatanna tells him. “And I could ask you the same question.”

Bruce winces.

“Harsh but fair.” He says. “Guess I have some trust to win back here, huh?”

“Think of it as a tough audience to win over and you’ll be fine.” Zatanna says with a small smile.

“Bruce, if you’re really back quit flirting and help me pack!” Dick calls out and Bruce jolts, his cheeks flaring with embarrassment.

“Dick!” He calls back. “I wasn’t...I mean I wasn’t trying to...” he stutters.

A small smile settles on Zatanna's face.

“We can catch each other up later, go help your dad.” She says, amused.

“Right, nice meeting you.” Bruce says and bows on habit before running back to Dick who is folding the tarpaulin.

“It really is easier with two sets of hands. Hold this.” Dick says and hands him the edges of the tarp.

Bruce takes them and starts to fold.

“You didn’t have to say that, I was just gathering information for a threat assessment.” He tells Dick.

“Uh huh, and the fact she’s an attractive teenage girl has nothing to do with it.” Dick replies.

“Nothing at all!” Bruce says back with a flush of embarrassment still dusting his cheeks.

Dick chuckles. It’s good to feel like a family again.


	21. Midway City

Dick wakes up to Bruce perched over his bed. His breath is light, his step silent, and he leaves no more of a trace than a shadow, but it is enough for Dick to know he’s there. Internally Dick sighs and shifts in the sheets. He hadn’t missed this.

“’Morning Bruce.” He says and yawns. “What time is it?”

“Five.” Bruce tells him. “I got bored.”

Dick stretches.

“Part of getting you your own trailer was to stop you waking me up in the morning.” He says and rotates his shoulders. They click, last night’s fighting has left them stiff. Talia’s assassins weren’t an easy fight.

“I already did my morning weapons drills, meditation, recon, inventory, patrolled the perimeter, and transferred my weapons to my trailer.” Bruce tells him. “Give me something else to do.”

“Bruce…” Dick says warningly, out of habit.

Bruce rolls his eyes.

“ _Please_ give me something else to do.” He says politely. “If we’re going to make this team work I need some direction.”

“Right, right.” Dick says and sits up.

He checks the position of the sun behind the blinds. They have time. The circus was still peaceful, the early risers being spaced out enough for him to get some practise in unobserved.

“Get ready, as of today you are officially a hero-in-training.” He tells Bruce. “It’s not going to be easy but if you’re going to stick with it, I’m going to teach you.”

Bruce smiles widely.

“Now shove off and let me get dressed.” Dick says, not unkindly, and Bruce melts away into the shadows.

Dick sighs and hauls himself upright. His back aches, he had been flung hard against a lamppost last night, and it was leaving an impressive patch of mottled bruising across his spine. By now he was used to concealing injuries and the ache of bruises was a familiar part of his morning routine. As he checks through the Justice League information feed he notices a new message circulating the thread for identity-cleared non-business; it’s a picture of him sleeping.

Dick sighs as he sees the original poster. ‘The Bat’ of course.

Immediately under it is a message from Jason, username ‘LoneWolf’, saying 'draw a dick on his face' followed by a picture of a picture of exactly that. Tim, his username an impossible to remember string of numbers Dick swears he keeps changing, had then shared it directly with every core member of the Justice League, including him.

Dick sighs again, far more deeply this time, but a faint smile is lurking at the corners of his lips as he washes the whiteboard marker off in the sink. So Bruce had both managed to actually sneak up on him and give himself access to the League systems; it was a good thing he was on their side. Bruce was showing off for sure, mostly out of a desire to impress him, but Dick could see the hidden message from Damian there; it was a reminder that giving the League of Shadows cause to fight would be pyrrhic at best. It would be best to start his training as soon as possible, preferably before Jason encouraged him with any more bad ideas.

He dons his armor with all the solemn formality of a knight. Respect for the uniform was one lesson the former Talon had beaten into him, quite literally. Careful investment of the funds he had appropriated from the Owls had led to something divorced from the regular Talon Suit. It was still a dusty off black that blended seamlessly into an urban environment, but he’d added some feathering patterns across the chest in a deep blue that blended just as well (to the surprise of those that hadn’t made a study of urban camouflage). When he was younger and not bound by the need to honor years of Talon tradition he had experimented with more colorful looks and had admittedly gone a bit overboard on some of them, learning some lessons in urban camouflage the hard way. Tim had kept pictures to show to new recruits, just in case anyone ever started taking him too seriously. These days he stuck to the Steller’s Jay look, it was practical but also approachable, and he had reinforced the chest so it could draw fire from more vulnerable areas.

Despite himself Dick still feels like smiling.

He should probably be taking things more seriously, it was a criticism he often heard, but a teenager _wanting_ adult supervision is minor miracle. He had made mistakes, but he was allowed a second chance, he wasn’t going to waste it.

The morning is crisp and the sky is light with the promise of sunrise. A good morning for beginnings.

“Alright.” He says and Bruce straightens up and pays attention. “Show me what you’ve learned.”

They both easily fall into trained patterns of attack and defense. It is far from effortless but as relaxing in its own way as a morning’s meditation. Bruce is definitely showing off what he has learned, he wants to prove himself and Dick is willing to let him.

Damian had sent him updates on Bruce’s progress by the amusingly antiquated method of trained raven. The letters had reached him through more mundane means; a hand-delivered envelope with no postmarks or return address. They had all said the same thing, something Dick had been trying to deny; Bruce was a natural fighter. Trying to keep him from a fight was like trying to keep a duck from water. Dick wonders where it had all started to fall apart. He had wanted to be a guardian, how much of this was his failing and how much was inevitable, some greater destiny using them?

Dick raises a hand for a halt, his muscles pleasantly buzzing with the exercise, and breaks for water.

“I know what I have to do.” Bruce says as Dick chugs from one of his water bottles.

Dick frowns, already bracing himself for what feels like an argument. Bruce was an adult in many ways, he wasn’t a child that needed to be protected, but he was still so painfully young…

“I have to go back to Gotham.” Bruce tells him.

“No.” Dick says immediately.

“I have a company to manage, it’s past time the long-lost Wayne heir returned to it don’t you think?” Bruce says in his best reasonable tone.

“Bruce, no-one survives Gotham unbroken.” Dick says. “I’m not going to let it break you too.”

“It already has.” Bruce points out. His face is a blank mask but his tone is betraying his feelings. “It’s my home Dick, I have to keep it safe. Surely you know what that’s like, wanting to protect your home?” He makes an appeal.

“No.” Dick says softly. “The circus has always been family to me, people not a place. Wanting to protect something physical, a group of buildings and places…I don’t understand it, I don’t understand it at all.”

“You know what will happen if you try and stop me.” Bruce says quietly, and although there is a threat in his words his tone is sad. He doesn’t want this to become a fight.

Dick takes a moment to look up at the sky, pinch the bridge of his nose against a growing headache, and take a deep breath. He manages to fight down the terrified, instinctual part of him that would rather put his child in a cage than see him return to that city. It feels like the universe is conspiring against him to make history repeat; no matter how hard he tried the world seemed to demand he sacrifice his son to the hungry city. Dick beckons Bruce closer with one hand. Bruce steps forward.

“I’m sorry.” Dick’s arm curl around his shoulders. “I’m sorry, I should have been a better father to you.”

“You’re a great father Dick.” Bruce tells him.

Dick sighs sadly.

“No. No, I’m not. If I were any good I would have prevented this.” He tells him. “This life is a curse, Bruce, maybe someday you will forgive me.”

He smiles a small sad smile.

“Currently Gotham has no appointed representative.” He says, forcing down the nausea of panic and the prickling feeling of dread crawling up his spine. “I’ll put it to a vote from the founding members. That’s the best I can do.”

In all honesty Dick isn’t sure which way that vote will go; Wally and Kara liked Bruce well enough but they’d also seen him in the labyrinth, Donna had been there too and Kyle and Garth hadn’t met Bruce (Atlantis and Outer Space being outside of the circus’s tour radius). He wouldn’t be permitted to vote, he was too close to the issue. Roy would probably be called in to take his place in the council as a base-line human.

“For the sake of my poor old heart, please try and be normal for one day.” Dick tells him.

Bruce grins.

“A whole day?” He sighs melodramatically. “If you insist.”

“I mean it.” Dick says firmly. “Everyone was worried about you, reassure them everything’s okay, work on your act, make ‘friends’ with the new girl.” Dick raises a suggestive eyebrow and Bruce groans.

“I told you I was just being prudent in information gathering, stop making it weird.” Bruce tells him.

“I will when your reaction stops being amusing.” Dick says with brutal honesty and ruffles his hair.

With a chuckle he waves Bruce on and goes to get ready for the show.

Bruce takes a deep breath. The smells of distant exhaust fumes overlay the familiar smells of canvas and chemicals, dusted with the lingering smells of buttered popcorn, candy floss and corn dogs. He was home, finally home after what felt like decades, and it was like he never left.

He walks through the circus, noting the trailers arranged in familiar streets his body walks without needing input from his brain. People are watching him, not with the jealous eyes of fellow students or the judging eyes of graduate Shadows, they see him and smile. It is a strange kind of bliss to be able to freely walk in his own skin.

He wanders his way to the main tent. By now the performance schedule is burned into his brain; there’ll be an evening show and he’s too late to be added to it but he’ll be expected to perform at the next town. Might as well get some practice in.

Bruce ducks into the main tent, rolls his shoulders and checks his blades. There is someone else there, even though it is hours until the next performance, though that’s not unusual. Zatanna stands in the center of the ring, acknowledging an invisible audience as she shuffles cards in an arch over her head.

Bruce slips into the shadows as he scales the seating from behind and finds a seat on the wooden bench. He perches where the limited light makes him one shadow among many and watches.

He has a healthy appreciation for the classics, you knew where you stood with a magic act. To her credit Zatanna is a good performer, he can appreciate that art that goes into a magic trick. Bruce was somewhat of a connoisseur of sleight of hand. Selina had taught him all he knows about the art of pickpocketing, and the League of Shadows had taught him more than a couple of tricks of his own.

She’s nervous though. Her gestures are still a little stiff, her smile a bit too fake. Bruce has seen it before, she knows her stuff, she’s just not sure of herself. She doesn’t have faith in herself as a performer yet.

Still when she wraps up her set and takes a bow, Bruce politely applauds.

Zatanna jolts in surprise and nearly drops her hat.

“Now I see why they call you Spook.” She says as he drops to ground level and steps into the light.

Bruce shrugs one shoulder in not quite an apology.

“Came to do some practice of my own and thought I’d take in the show.” He says.

Zatanna folds her arms but smiles.

“Haven't you been told it’s rude to peep on a lady uninvited?” She asks.

“Didn't want to put you off your stride.” Bruce says with a grin.

“What’s your act?” Zatanna asks him. “I don’t think I’ve heard it mentioned.”

Bruce smiles an easy smile.

“It’s a work in progress.” He tells her. “I’m going to incorporate some new material into it but I’m a daredevil; a bit of escapology, a bit of knife-throwing, a bit of sleight-of-hand.” He says, bowing theatrically to an imaginary crowd and flicking three of his curved blades into his hand at the same time.

He throws them and they hum through the air, making a sound like the whispering of wings. He loops the blades around his neck in a spiraling trajectory, humming closer and closer to his skin like the blades of a blender, before he snatches them out of the air an inch from his throat and throws them again. They turn end over end and their edges gleaming silver with razor sharpness.

“That sounds dangerous.” She says.

“Daredevilling’s a dangerous job, when it goes wrong it goes really wrong, but it just doesn’t seem _real_ without the danger.” Bruce snaps all three blades out of the air and makes them vanish up his sleeve.

“You ever hurt yourself?” Zatanna asks him.

“Sure.” He says and tilts his head back. “See this scar here?” He traces the line of pale scar tissue across the underside of his jaw. “Almost cut my throat with one of these birdarangs during a show. Dick nearly had a heart attack but I finished the set before getting patched up. He didn’t know whether to be more worried or proud.”

“Birdarang?” Zatanna says with a small smile.

“Dick’s name for them.” Bruce replies. “I just call them my blades, claws if I’m feeling fancy.”

He hands one to Zatanna so she can inspect it.

“So you’re a Majer?” He says, using the circus slang for someone who worked as a purveyor of supernatural entertainment.

Zatanna nods.

“I’m working on making it a stronger act.” She says. “I am a bit nervous to be honest. I haven’t been a solo performer long, I’m always worried I am going to mess up now I’ve made changes to the routine.”

“Ah, advanced stage fright.” Bruce says with a sage nod. “I could always be your assistant while you’re working out the kinks.” He offers. “Going to have to pass on the sequins and fishnets though.”

Zatanna grins at the mental image.

“I might take you up on that offer.” She tells him. “Of course it’s hard balancing it with Justice League work.”

Bruce tries not give anything away with his expression but his expression locks down and his smile fades.

“And what do you do with the League?” He asks calmly, his face an impassive and unreadable mask.

“Magic of course!” Zatanna rolls her eyes.

“Do you mean…?” Bruce starts to ask.

“ _Real_ magic.” Zatanna snaps, sick of the question and response.

“What do you mean by _real_ magic?” Bruce asks, still an unreadable blank slate.

“Nwod edispu nrut.” Zatanna claps her hands together and casts. “Stcejbo taolf.”

The world suddenly inverts so Zatanna is standing on the ceiling of dusty earth as the canvas floor of the tent stretches underneath as a thin barrier to the endless sea of open sky seen through slits in the canvas. At the same time gravity fails and weightlessness takes his limbs and leaves him floating in place.

“Raeppa srewolf _._ ”

A gentle shower of flower petals starts to fall from above, appearing from the dusty ground and funnelling along the tent’s roof into the blue sky.

Zatanna looks up at him.

“ _That_ is what I mean by real magic.” She says.

Bruce fixes her with dark eyes and Zatanna realizes that behind layers of defensiveness she has upset him.

“End the spell. Now.” He demands.

“Lleps eht odnu!” Zatanna recites and the tent immediately returns to normal. Objects fall back into place with a small thud.

Bruce carefully reaches out and touches the ground in front of him to test it is still solid.

“So that’s ‘real’ magic then.” He says, sounding unimpressed. “No wonder Dick doesn’t believe in it.”

“After all of that you don’t believe in magic?” Zatanna asks incredulously.

Bruce looks at her with wary wild-animal eyes.

“I don’t believe in magic as an easy way out.” Bruce corrects her. “I accept that there are some things in the world I don’t understand, that they follow a different set of rules than the ones that I live my life by, but there _are_ rules and one of them is that magic has a price in the end. Where does relying on magic end? Would you _magic_ people good, the innocent would have nothing to fear, would they?” He asks.

“It’s not like that!” Zatanna snaps, feeling angry she has to defend herself.

“Isn’t it?” Bruce asks her. “You were born with your magic, weren’t you? You spent your whole life with it there, offering an easy way out, knowing you can reshape the world to your whims, never having to face consequences. Can you honestly say you never made any mistakes? Never made anything _worse_ by using your magic?”

Zatanna’s eyes slip down and to the side, a clear indication that he’s right, she has made mistakes. Bruce’s smile is cold as ice and without a trace of humor behind it.

“It must have been lonely, growing up knowing no-one will ever understand you, not knowing if you’re human enough to ever belong here. That’s the price you pay for your magic.” He says.

Zatanna slaps him, or at least she tries to. Bruce grabs her hand by the wrist before she makes contact.

“Just because the truth hurts doesn’t mean you can deny it.” He says in a tone of terrible, emotionless calm. His eyes seem to be all pupil, alien pits of blackness in his pale face. “You have to accept it and move forward. That’s the way we grow as people.”

He kisses the back of her hand.

“…You’re making me uncomfortable.” Zatanna tells him.

“You using magic on me without my permission makes me uncomfortable.” Bruce replies. “This makes us even.”

He lets go of her hand. Zatanna draws it back against her chest and takes a breath to steady herself. Dick had warned her about some of Bruce’s less than friendly habits. She made him feel threatened and powerless, he lashed out to protect himself.

“…Sorry.” She apologizes quietly.

“Hmmm?” Bruce hums and tilts his head to the side, making it clear he didn’t hear her, or is choosing to act like he hadn’t.

“I’m sorry.” Zatanna says more confidently, remembering her briefing. “I shouldn’t have cast a spell on you without your permission, I got…carried away. I wanted to show off and didn’t consider how using my magic could make you feel.”

“Never do it again and I might forgive you.” Bruce says with a faint smile that puts Zatanna at ease. “Zatanna, I think we can help each other.” He proposes.

“How so?” Zatanna asks him.

“You have confidence issues.” He says and sees her flinch defensively. “Hard truth, remember, accept it and move past it. You rely on magic to solve all your problems and lose confidence in yourself when it doesn’t, then use more magic to try and fix that, causing a negative feedback loop.”

Bruce appraises the lady magician.

“Dick doesn’t have any inherent abilities, yet he stands on the Justice League as an equal. He accomplishes this by being smart and by knowing his own strengths. I believe this is what you were sent here to learn.”

He offers a hand, more genuinely.

“In that we are fellow pupils.” He says. “I can help you if you’ll help me.”

Zatanna feels a small shiver of foreboding at Bruce’s gentle smile but takes his hand. Bruce tugs her forward, pulling her hand up so they bump elbows. They click fingers in sync in the informal performer’s bargain.

“It’s agreed then.” Bruce says solemnly and maybe it’s just the lighting in the tent but his face seems darker somehow.

“What do you want help with?” Zatanna asks him.

For a moment Bruce’s eyes once again seem alien and black, as if some darker thing is looking out through them.

“Teach me necromancy, real magician.” He says and, though his tone is soft and his smile light Zatanna feels a chill run down her spine.

“I can’t do that.” She says.

A flash of pure, violent rage passes over Bruce’s normally calm face, as fast as a lightning flash, but enough to scare her.

“Dick told me you would ask.” Zatanna quickly says.

“Did he say why?” Bruce immediately asks.

“He did.” Zatanna says. “And I’m sorry Bruce, necromancy can’t revive a spirit that has passed on, and they _have_ passed on.”

Bruce turns away from her so she can’t see his face. His entire body goes stiff and he draws himself up with regal bearing.

“What’s the point of necromancy then?!” He says with a childish disgust, breaking the tense atmosphere so cleanly that Zatanna can’t help but laugh.

“A lot of black magic practitioners would be surprised to hear you say that.” She says. “Necromancers want to feel like they have power over life and death, even though the black magic kills them in the end. Taking a spirit that has passed on and forcing its energy back into a form it once took; it’s tiring, difficult, dangerous and incredibly painful for the spirit. Necromancers do this for their own selfish ends, not caring about the spirits they control.”

“I just want to see them again…” Bruce says softly and Zatanna can hear the wounded child in his words.

“You will.” She tells him and takes a chance on resting a hand on his shoulder. “When your natural time comes.”

Bruce sighs but doesn’t flinch or try to brush off her hand.

“I know it’s wrong, but for a moment I hoped…” He mutters to himself in an honest confession.

“We all do.” Zatanna says softly. “But Magic doesn’t fix everything. It’s not an easy way out.”

Bruce makes a small sound, half a sob and half a laugh, and straightens up, wiping at his eyes with one hand though Zatanna can’t see any trace of tears on them.

“I apologize, I was being childish and undermined my own position.” He says formally, his face reverting back to a calm, emotionless mask.

Zatanna sighs.

“There you go again, putting up walls.” She says. “Your aura’s like a castle!”

Bruce smiles a small sardonic smile. Maybe the castle gates weren’t all the way closed.

“I thought my aura was sharp?” He says.

“It is, it can be both.” Zatanna says defensively, far too used to these kinds of inane questions from people who couldn’t perceive auras.

“Alright, you’re the expert.” Bruce says with a laugh that is far from friendly.

Bruce feels rather than sees the explosion; a solid 'whump' of changing air pressure that presses down on him like a thick blanket. Light shines through the tent fabric like a second sun had appeared on the ground, a fraction of a second before the sound hits in a solid rolling wave that rocks the ground like an earthquake.

It is only after that the screaming begins.

Bruce is already moving before the echoes can fade away, Zatanna following him half a step behind as they both immediately head towards the explosion.

Bruce tears the canvas out of the way and runs towards the source of the screaming, trying to place this sudden violence in his image of the peaceful, safe circus. The crackling of flames eating into wood fills his ears and the light of it is a beacon drawing him in with a terrible certainty. Debris thrown clear by the explosion is scattered underfoot, some of it still burning. The flames are bright and nearly surreal against the midday sky.

In three steps he sees it; the fire-eater’s trailer is a skeletal wreck of smoldering black beams. For a brief moment Bruce swears he can see a charred black hand reaching skyward before he has to turn away in nausea.

It looks like a horrible accident, to the outside at least, but Bruce knew the fire-eaters took greater care with their chemicals than any outsider. This was no accident; it was a deliberate sick mockery of their chosen profession.

The flames are spreading, moving from the chunks of debris to other trailers. There are no sirens, not yet, no hope is coming from the outside and, Bruce realizes, it is unlikely to. Midway City had no resident heroes after the Doom Patrol had left, it remained on the tour as a tribute to those now deceased heroes.

There is a man in the midway, watching the flames. He is dressed in black and his outfit is noticeably older but still clearly one he recognizes. They see him at the same time Bruce sees them. Bruce is fast; they are faster. They catch him as he tries to run and Bruce gurgles as he is picked up by the throat. He quickly gestures for Zatanna to hold back. She is reluctant, but backs away out of sight of the man in black. They smile and Bruce notes an unnatural blackness is pulsing in his veins, crawling up his tan skin towards eyes hidden behind a mask of chemically dulled metal. The eyes themselves are covered by round staring lenses of red. He should have been prepared for this; he should have known the Court of Owls wouldn’t let their humiliation stand.

“Hello baby bird.” The Talon says.

Bruce immediately stabs him through the wrist. The blade is meant for throwing, not stabbing but it still sinks deeply into the flesh. The Talon’s grip doesn’t loosen an inch, though the blade sticks firmly, and the dark liquid that drips languidly from the wound is a pitch-black oil instead of blood. Whatever this Talon was it didn’t feel pain. Bruce calls on a technique Damian taught to steady his breathing. If a blade through it didn’t loosen the hand’s grip Bruce doubts any of his other blades would do it. Best bet for now is to keep him talking.

There is a look of disappointment on the face of the Talon as he turns Bruce over in his grasp to get a look at him.

“A Wayne, yes?” He asks and his grip tightens. Bruce chokes, more theatrically than he needs to, as he quickly compiles data. “The last Wayne as my masters inform me. This is who he chose as his successor? A trust fund brat born choking on a silver spoon playing at being a class traitor.” The Talon sighs. “No wonder the masters want this little embarrassment squashed.”

“Richard.” Dick says. “Put him down.”

The Talon turns his eyes away. With his free hand he removes his mask, and lets it fall, tugging at his collar to expose his neck. Bruce can see veins of blackness spiralling up from a slash of black that bisects his throat.

“Hello Dick.” Richard says with a smile. “It’s good to see you again.”


	22. Haly's Circus

“Oh Dick.” The Talon sighs. “What have you done?”

“Put him down. Now.” Dick growls.

“Or what?” The Talon asks with a small sad smile. “You’re going to kill me again?”

There is a pause.

“You turned your back on the masters.” Richard says. “How could you?”

“You raised me as a _sacrifice_ to them! You whipped me on their orders! How could _you_?” Dick growls back; he is angry but also keeping a close eye on Bruce.

“One life.” Richard says simply. “A single life sacrificed for the safety of my home and my family.” He gestures to the circus with his free hand. “All they asked was one life given in service. I sold you to save them and I would do it again. I only mourn the fact you couldn’t see that what I did I did out of love. I did it to protect my home. It is a shame you were not strong enough to do the same. You took in this _brat,_ ” He shakes Bruce by the neck. “One of the wealthy families Dick, one of the _masters_ and you took him into our _home_. They have everything else, why did you give them our home?” He asks sadly.

“Bruce is no Owl!” Dick tells him as he draws a blade and circles.

“A class traitor is not one of us.” Richard replies calmly, moving in step. “He is a master playing, nothing more. He can never be _family._ ”

The Talon’s grip isn’t aiming to kill, at least not quickly, and Bruce can still breathe past it better than the Talon thought he could. He tries to convey this to Dick using only his eyes as he struggles for the look of it. _Waiting for orders_ , Bruce signs in the circus sign he now knows is descended from the League of Shadows hand signs. The Talon doesn’t see.

“The Court always wins.” Richard recites and it brings back childhood memories of the same phrase being drummed into Dick with force. “They cannot be defeated, Dick, they cannot be escaped. Even in death they own us. All we can do is obey and hope they will be merciful.”

“I escaped them and Bruce did too.” Dick says. He has his blades drawn, one in each hand, but the knife Bruce has stuck through Richard’s wrist hasn’t escaped him. The former Talon had been a tough fighter when he was alive; the blade doesn’t bother him now he’s dead.

Richard smile a wry smile and shakes his head.

“No-one escapes the Owls.” He says and a look of genuine sadness passes his face. “You humiliated them. You became an _embarrassment._ Their revenge will be far worse than living as their Talon. Was it worth it to spit in the masters’ faces?”

“I’d rather die than live as a slave!” Dick hisses.

“You are being so _selfish_ Dick.” The Talon shakes his head. “You only think of yourself; they will take everything from you _but_ your life.”

Another explosion rocks the ground. Bruce taps two fingers against his throat in a clear signal. Barely perceptibly Dick nods.

“I kept them _safe_!” Richard says, not noting the signal or the fact that his prisoner had stopped struggling. “You have doomed them! The ones who suffer will be the ones you love, you placed your freedom above their lives, you chose not to protect them! The masters have given us one final mission; Haly’s circus will be destroyed. They will burn it to the ground and start again from ashes.”

Bruce breaks his hand. Bones snap in chorus as he applies the same technique he had used to escape Goliath to a human hand. Three fingers are nearly torn off but he is free.

“You bastard!” The Talon swears as he resets his fingers. They click back into place and he flexes them as if nothing has happened but Bruce darts out of his reach.

“Go! I’ve got this!” Dick yells and charges in. Daggers meet with a shower of sparks. “I’ve already killed him once, I can do it again!”

Richard laughs.

“A rematch then, to _prove_ who is the better Talon!” He says and grins savagely as he dives into the fight. Bruce recognizes that grin; it’s the same look that he had when he fought. The former Talon is enjoying this fight. “I will enjoy adding your body to the ranks of dishonored Talons for _eternity_.”

Bruce rolls into the shadowed gap between tents. He presses against the canvas besides Zatanna, who has been watching from a safe distance with a nimbus of colored light dancing on her fingertips.

“Good work holding back.” He praises her quietly. “We needed experienced eyes on this; no point charging in blind.” He observes the former Talon as they duel. The gash running across his throat was obviously fatal but the blackness that had replaced his blood was an unknown. “I need info, now, what are we looking at here? Zombie? Revenant? Lich?”

Zatanna shakes her head.

“I’ve already tried a couple of exorcisms, it’s not a spirit possessing a corpse.” She tells him. “There’s no traces of dark magic at all; a lich would be practically glowing with it. A zombie would be showing signs of decay if he was recently reanimated, but he looks like he only died yesterday and he’s perfectly coherent. The healing tripped me up but he didn’t use a spell for it. This seems to be a chemical resurrection. Something was used to preserve a corpse shortly after death then revive it later, I’m not sure what. It resets itself to a default state, likely the state the body was in when it was revived, that’s why his fingers have healed but his throat hasn’t.”

Bruce nods.

“An excellent analysis.” He tells her. She smiles. “Now, most important question; how do we stop it?”

The smile falters.

“My divination isn’t the strongest, it’s going to take some trial and error, but traditionally at least…decapitation?” Zatanna says uncertainly. “The healing didn’t remove your knife so you could probably pin one down, I don’t think they can regenerate limbs and…” She frowns as she goes over the signs she had got from the spell she had just cast. “Possibly…cold.” She shrugs with one shoulder. “Signs are unclear, I didn’t want to risk a spell while he had you by the throat.”

“Very smart.” A third voice says from behind them. “The resurrection elixir responds to cold, so that we may hibernate until summoned for future service. You have no ice here. You will die.”

Bruce tenses and turns in one smooth movement. The _second_ Talon watches with his face unreadable behind a mask like an executioner’s hood. Their armor is a hundred years out of date. A knife cuts through the air and Bruce leaps with his hand outstretched. He grabs the owl-headed dagger by the hilt just before it can pierce Zatanna’s eye.

“Try it!” He orders as he charges the new Talon and returns their dagger to their ribs. It has no effect even though Bruce _knows_ he hit a lung.

“Hmph.” The second Talon seems unimpressed he hasn’t gone for a killing blow. “Standards have fallen far since my time.” He rolls his neck. “I look forward to killing a Wayne. I understand I will be the last one to have the honor.”

“Snolat eht lla ezeerf!” Zatanna casts.

The temperature plummets and ice crackles, forming at the feet and clawing rapidly up the black armored legs, not just of their attackers but, to her horror, of _everyone_ who had been named Talon. Bruce cries out once, sharply, with fear clear on his face, before the ice fills his mouth and freezes him in place.

Four perfect ice statues stand before her, locked in a frozen moment of eternal combat, and she jolts in panic at the unintended consequence.

“Dne eth lleps!” She casts again and the ice cracks and crumbles, turning to frost and melting away as fast as it formed.

Bruce immediately leaps backwards and fights for breath, falling to all fours like a threatened animal with his eyes dark and hostile. His shoulders are shaking but whether it is fear, cold or rage is impossible to tell.

“What the _hell_ just happened?!” The Talon growls and points a blade at her.

Zatanna flinches and reaches for her magic.

“Accept, move past it!” Bruce growls and leaps at the Talon. Another four knives impact the undead assassin’s chest hard enough to drive it a step back. “Your priority is saving survivors and alerting the justice league; in my trailer there’s an ultra-sonic beacon. You have to activate it. They will be looking to _you_ for leadership. Keep them safe, Dick and I will handle the Talons!”

The Talon laughs a deep, rough, smoker’s chuckle.

“You’re going to handle me baby bird?” The Talon sounds amused. “The masters were clear, they wish for you to _suffer_. Maybe I will skin this witch in front of you.” He grabs Bruce’s wrist as he tries to hit him and flings Bruce at once of the tents.

Bruce rolls where he hits to minimize the impact but feels a tent pole crack under the impact.

“Go now!” Bruce orders. “I won’t…be…here.” He mutters as his vision narrows to a single shining point.

Bruce becomes hamask and feels the bizarre mirroring of his self ripple outwards. What could be thought of as his logic and reason separates and drifts free like an imp or angel on his shoulder, while the animal mind takes the fore. The imp encourages the animal, giving it an order to protect its territory.

The Bat takes over and spreads his black velvet wings. It screams the note of Goliath’s bat-whistle that felt like your eardrums had just been flicked with a fingernail. The Talon had no experience with it, he stumbles and gives the beast an opening. The Bat leaps on him, tearing at him with teeth and claws, screaming, never staying still, wrenching his arms from their sockets as it tries to find a bare patch of skin for its teeth to rip into. The Talon stumbles, the Bat pounces.

 _How dare you be here,_ the Bat screams at it, _my land, my people, mine, mine, MINE!_

The girl is gone, the Bat barely notices. She was of his territory, he has to protect her from the Enemy and the Enemy was right in front of him. He tears into them to keep them from harming anyone else. The Bat pulls arms and legs out of their sockets, and takes the Talon’s claws. One hammered through each outstretched hand and foot kept them from flying free. The Bat hisses at them. He hated owls. The Talon wisely goes limp.

The Imp calls in his ears, telling him there are more enemies threatening his Family. The Bat snarls, already forgetting the wingless bird, and sniffs at the air. He smells fire and chemicals and metal and blood clinging to the smell of home. He hears a scream.

The Bat hunts.

On soundless wing he flies across the tent-tops, seeing the flames spread out from floating orbs in the sky. They hurt his family but they had no flesh to tear or bones to break. He could not fight them. They were the Enemy’s claws; he will break them when he breaks the Enemy. He sees blood, he sees a body, the Bat doesn’t see their face, just the explosion twisted limbs. Enemy, in his territory, hunting his family, must be stopped!

The Bat snarls and leaves the dead behind in pursuit of their killer. He follows the tracks to two figures in black stalking along the causeway. Blood drips from their claws. He folds his wings and waits in the shadows. One of the Talons is humming a tune he recognizes as a circus one, as he draws closer he can hear the words they are whispering under their breath.

“ _Beware the Court of Owls, that watches all the time, Ruling Gotham from a shadowed perch, behind granite and lime. They watch you at your hearth, they watch you in your bed._ ” The Talon whistles to a jaunty tune. “ _Speak not a whispered word of them…”_

The Bat swoops. A foot catches the enemy in the face and breaks their jaw mid-sentence.

‘ _...Or they’ll send the Talon for your head._ ’ The Imp finishes.

A blow to the Bat’s head makes his ears ring and his vision swoop. He leaps back, wiping the blood from his mouth, and bares his bloody teeth in a warning snarl as he hisses.

“What the hell do you think you are?” The Talon says as he straightens up. “Some kind of beast boy?”

The other Talon relocated her jaw

“Isn’t he the one that flew the coop?” She asks.

The Bat spreads his wings and leaps for them. As he lands and snaps his wings close to his sides, going from a large target to a small one. They were owls, they only knew how to hunt alone, they stab each other as they try to hit him. The Bat ducks and dodges out of the way of their blades, leaving the two Talons to get in each other’s way. As they swear and try and pull their blades free the Bat drops a noose over their necks, one of razor wire. They struggle against it and the wire draws tight enough to cut into their throats; anymore and they will cut off their own heads. The Talons stop fighting. The Bat takes their claws and flies on.

There was no time, he was late, too late, already too late.

A horrible sound rends the air, a low and mournful howl like that of a wolf rises above the crackling of flames. It comes from a father holding the body of his son cradled in his arms. The sound and the sight strikes some primal nerve in the Bat and he shakes his head and paws at his ears as a flash of involuntary memory hits him. He slams into the side of a trailer, smashing his head against the metal to try and shock the memory clear. He snarls with bloodied saliva dripping from his jaws as they snap uselessly on the open air.

_Grey paving stones in the rain, blood running into the gutter, the smell of cordite and red-and-blue lights touching the darkness in the distance…_

The Imp calls him back to his skin and back to the present. It was too late for the father and his boy, but there were others he could still save, if he stopped they would die. The Bat grimaces and continues onwards.

The flames grow wide, passing from rooftop to rooftop, ‘ _Deliberately spread.’_ the Imp on his shoulder notes. The heat and smoke fills the air.

‘ _They’re trying to separate us._ ’ The Imp tells the Bat.

The Bat agrees. His family was strong together, the Enemy knew this. They would try to hunt them apart. The Bat turns through the smoke to the reassuringly familiar shape that stands in the centre of his territory. It was a safe place, a defensible place, his family would know this, they would go.

 _‘The main tent._ ’ The Imp says.

 _The Roost._ The Bat agrees.

It flies on in a descending spiral, hunting for survivors and the Enemy. The thermals from the flames catch his wings, they give him height. Blood, bodies, flickering shadows in the firelight. Family, _his_ family burning!

There, in the shadows, wounded but not dead! The Bat lands, notes the blood on the skin of the staggering figure, and dashes to steady her. An owl’s claw had pierced her, she now held it bloody in one hand. The Bat puts pressure on the wound to stem the blood flow, tears cloth free to wad the wound and the Imp directs him in securing it with the tape from his medical kit. She holds the cloth in place for him as he ties it in place. The Bat touches their foreheads to check her eyes, they are still alert, she is not dying. She tries to speak but the Bat doesn’t understand the sounds. He snarls to cut her off and points to the Roost with one claw. His family nods her understanding and the Bat gives her the Talon’s stolen claws. With them gleaming in her fingers she limps in the direction of the main tent.

The Bat flies on, the flames are growing higher. A shape moves; the Bat recognizes the ashy embers that remain of the Fire-eater’s trailer. The shape standing in front of it is too small to be the Enemy.

‘ _Eli!’_ the Imp calls out.

The fire-eater’s son looks up at him for a second then steps forward and into the flames. He doesn’t flinch as his clothing catches and the flames flare up around him. He disappears into the heart of the blaze.

The Imp grabs his hair to stop the Bat from diving after him. ‘ _No time to mourn the dead,’_ it said, _‘You have living to protect.’_

The Bat leans into the hunt while the rest of him cries for the dead and the injured and the loss of his home. There are sirens on the wind now, and no more lights from the sky. The Enemy’s claws had been ripped out there.

The bare earth here has been scuffed by moving feet fleeing and fighting and there are steaks of blood dragged across the dirt. A body dressed in black lies six feet apart from its head.

‘ _Torn off._ ’ The Imp tells him. ‘ _By something big, be careful._ ’

The Bat wants to tear _its_ head off.

‘ _Don’t go savage._ ’ The Imp reminds him. ‘ _I’ll never forgive you if you murder someone again.’_

 _Owl’s not human._ The Bat argues back as he follows the tracks in the dirt as fast as it could manage.

The flames are getting too high, he sees three more of the Enemy in pools of their own black blood. Two appear to have been crushed and still twitch like squashed black beetles as their healing struggles to deal with the damage. The third has been stabbed with malice aforethought and the Bat smiles to see the Enemy impaled by its own claws.

Movement catches his eye, a fresh footprint in the blood, a flutter of the fabric in the entrance of the main tent that was not the fire. A shape in the shadow, moving inwards.

The Bat swings into the tent a second behind it, blinking to adjust to the darkness. Family! His family, in the Roost, twenty of them in a defensive circle, no, fifteen now, he takes in the dead and dying still held close, they had no Bird to protect them from the Enemy.

The Enemy turns towards him, not human, barely human, all Owl, at least nine feet tall with mingled black and red blood dripping from its fists. The Bat screams at it. The Owl screams back at him, a deeper, feral sound.

‘ _Be careful!’_ the Imp says but he doesn’t need the warning.

The Bat knew if the Owl caught him it would tear the wings from his body and crunch him down. He remembered the Camazotz; he knew what it was like to be prey before a predator. If it caught him he would die, but he was the only thing that stood between it and his family. He might win, he might die, but he could not flee. The Owl’s head turns towards him as it targets the irritating, noisy prey that has drawn its attention.

The eyes of his family are on him, they whisper, the Bat wishes they would be quiet. He doesn’t want the Owl to target them, doesn’t want to risk its claws catching him if he is forced to attack to distract it.

The Bat climbs to a perch in the nest of ropes that strung the top of the tent. The Owl reaches for him, deceptively slowly to appear clumsy. It is toying with its prey by offering false hope. The Bat does not attempt to toy back; that would be suicidal over-confidence. He keeps his distance and throws a claw. The Owl lets it hit its face and then pulls the knife out like it was nothing more than a toothpick. It lets the claw drop and smiles as if to say ‘foolish prey, to think it can hurt an owl’. It wants to play, to _torture,_ draw out the pain if it can, before its prey died. It couldn’t be fought head-to-head any more than a mouse could fight a cat. It was time for cunning; the Bat had many claws.

He throws smoke bombs, they detonate into a choking screen of rolling white, and he follows up with a flash bang. The Owl claws its face as its vision is shattered. The Bat clips explosives to two claws before flings them. They impact by the Owl’s ears then detonate, taking the Owl’s ear drums with them. The Owl screeches in rage. The Bat slips into the protective metal shell of the katars, the punching daggers. He swoops and immediately regrets it. This Owl was not surprised by prey that could bite; it knows how to fight blind and deaf. He gets two solid blows in, the force of the punch driving the fifteen-inch blades of each dagger deep into the sallow dead flesh, before the Owl grins at having lured him into a trap. Its claws close around him and he must abandon his claws to save his life. The Bat slips free but the Owl’s reaching fingers crush his foot before he can escape.

‘ _Ouch.’_ The Imp notes at the grinding of bone. The Bat doesn’t have time to feel the pain. He slides back against the dusty ground and hisses. The Owl hisses back, mocking, but playing along for its own amusement. It doesn’t bother to pull the blades from its chest.

‘ _What are you going to do? He’s bigger and stronger than you!_ ’ The Imp says.

 _I’m faster_ the Bat snarls _And smarter._

 _‘You **were**_ _faster before he broke your foot._ ’ The Imp points out. ‘ _And you better hope you’re smarter, because if you’re not you’re dead.’_

The Owl grins and beckons with one claw. It flexes its claws, they creak in eagerness to rend flesh. Behind the Bat the Roost rouses. The Bat hears the rustling of their wings and the clicking of their claws as their voices rise in a chattering chorus. He cannot stop them, they have ceased to exist as individuals; they are the Roost, they are the Colony, they are Family, and they are angered, they are hurt, yes, they are hurt angry animals forced into a corner by a predator, how they _rise._ The Owl will learn why not many dared to hunt in daylight; alone they are prey, together they are a mob.

The Bat swoops and there is nothing but the mad, desperate fight to protect his family from the predator. He leaps for the face and drives his claws into the Owl’s eyes. The Owl immediately reaches to remove them and his family dart in to sink their claws into the exposed flesh while he does.

‘ _Left flank!_ ’ The Imp calls and the Bat darts in to cut the tendons of a raising arm. The blow that would have broken bones to splinters is weakened enough to merely crack them. ‘ _Watch out!_ ’ The Bat narrowly dodges the other hand that reaches to claw him free. ‘ _You have to disable it!’_

He sinks another claw into the back of the reaching hand, the Owl snarls and slams his back against the support posts to try and knock him off. The impact shakes him and he loses grip for an instant. The Bat clings close as the Owl kicks out and shatters bone with a kick. One of his family falls, clutching at their shattered ribs as blood pours from their open mouth, and the Owl moves to stomp them into the blood-stained dirt. The Bat drives a claw into the mangled mess that used to be an ear and forces the blade in as deep as he can. The Owl snarls and the Bat moves just in time to avoid the massive hand as the Owl plucks the blade free before it can puncture the skull. His injured family is pulled out of reach of the Owl's claws.

The Owl is big and it is strong, it is used to being the predator hunting lone frightened prey through as many lives as it wished. His family was not prey, they are fighting back. The Owl bares its teeth as it changes its stance to deal with the assault. It steps back to have the solid wood of the support beam against its back and spits black blood in defiance.

The Bat clings close as a flea to the Owl, he can’t afford to retreat, he can’t let the Owl hurt them more. He claws at the thick muscle of the neck, his claw cuts a vein but the black not-blood drips sluggishly. The Bat claws at its arms, its shoulders and legs, keeping close enough to dodge the swipes it saves for him. His claws dig shallowly into the dead meat, struggling to cut deep enough to actually stop the Owl. It fights too recklessly and heals too quickly for him to disable its limbs.

One of its claws catches him and tears him off, the Bat is bowled across the dusty ground. The Owl braces for an attack, it waits, then pounces to rip into his attackers. All that the Owl’s claws touch they destroy. Bones splinter, flesh tears, blood drips. The Bat no longer has the breath to scream its despair. It puts everything into the charge and the _strike_ , sinking his claws into the Owl’s face again and again and again until they shatter against the healing bone and he drives his fists in. Again and again and again fist into meat, then blood, then bone. The healing flesh crawls across the bone and he strikes harder and harder to save his family, to stop this creature that could not be killed, to protect them, to stop it from hurting anyone he cared about ever again. He hits it again and again and again and again...

An arm like a vice catches around his neck, the Bat gnaws at the entrapping arm, it’s like biting a sun-warmed steel bar. His teeth can find no purchase; he screams the notes of pain and feels the grip loosen. The Bat pulls free of it with a warning growl and pushes them away so they can be safe. He sinks another blow into the still healing flesh with a dull thud that matches his heartbeat. There is a voice speaking, he doesn’t understand the words but he knows the voice. The Imp pulls on the Bat's hair, forcing the beast back to heel, _‘It’s time they became one again'_ and the Bat agrees.

The Bird is here, it was over, they were safe now, the Bird is here.

Bruce gasps for air. His vision goes black. His entire body goes numb then tingles with returning sensation as his soul percolates back into his body. His ears pop and suddenly he can understand words again. All the fight bleeds out of Bruce and the tension leaves his body as he lets himself feel pain again. His knuckles are screaming in pain. The black blood of the Talon drips from his fist while his torn knuckles bleed into the inside of the glove. His throat is bleeding too, from the effort needed to make the notes of pain. The blood spills slickly down his throat and dribbles from his chin.

There is a weight on his upraised arm, and he realizes that Zatanna is clinging to it and pulling back with all her might. The face of the Talon in front of him is a smeared mess of black blood and broken bone. A bubble pops in the pool of black blood; not breathing but healing. Kal is there, hovering in mid-air with fear dark in his eyes. There is no more firelight on the horizon, just the blackened extinguished wrecks and the smell of charred lives.

“How many?” Bruce asks.

“Eighteen confirmed dead, thirty-four survivors, twelve have been hospitalized, three missing. Eight Talons recovered.” Dick tells him and nods to Kal. Kal nervously hovers forwards and blasts the giant Talon with a chilling breath. “Nine now.”

"Richard?" Bruce asks.

"His tongue is sharper than his sword skills and I stopped being afraid of him a long time ago. It hurt, but it hurt less than killing him." Dick tells him. "After I took him down Zatanna found me, we are going to have a talk about abandoning your teammates later, she told me about the beacon."

"I put out the fires once I got here." Kal adds.

Dick places a hand on Bruce’s shoulder as he looks over the fallen Talon.

“Felix Harmon, the Unworthy, a human landmine. They really wanted to be _sure,_ didn’t they?” He says bitterly. “Richard told me stories about him when he wanted to scare me. Back in his time he was called the Gotham Butcher; on his first mission as Talon he killed 140 people, and two members of the Court. You did good taking him down without anyone else dying.”

Bruce shakes his head.

“Should have saved more.” He says. “Should have stopped it.”

Bruce forces himself to his feet. With a great personal effort he manages not to sway but Kal moves to steady him anyway. Bruce feels a stab of annoyance at the requested aid, followed by a stab of pain as the motion brushes against a broken rib.

“Dog whistle worked.” Bruce says with dull satisfaction.

“You call it the _dog whistle?_ ” Kal frowns, looking deeply offended. “You’re lucky I decided to check out what the noise was at all! What were you planning on doing without my freeze breath?” He demands to know.

Bruce looks up at him with cold, dead, black eyes and Kal realizes that there was no plan, just an urgent need to save as many lives as possible even at the cost of his own. Kal hovers back, feeling cowed by the darkness in his friend’s eyes. He falls silent.

“It’s over Bruce, it’s over.” Dick tells him quietly. “We’re going to the Watchtower; the circus is finished. We can’t stay here anymore. The Court attacked them because of us, once we leave they’ll be safe. The Court won’t target them again unless we give them a reason to. We'll retreat, help who we can, save what can be saved, rebuild what we can."

Dick's eyes meet Bruce's and there is glinting in their depths more rage than Bruce had ever seen.

"They're not winning this; the Owls just started a war, and we're going to finish it.”


	23. Watchtower

“I wish I could have bought you here under better circumstances.” Dick mutters under his breath.

“Dick.” Bruce says, the lights of the cosmos reflecting in his eyes as he rests his hand against the viewing window. “Don’t ruin the moment.”

Bruce rests for a full minute in reverent silence as he watches the world below turn slowly in the void, the splash of color almost shining against the pure black of space. Bruce watches as night breaks over the horizon in a sweeping wave of darkness, followed by the gleam of tiny lights sparkling into life, each one twinkling like a galaxy of golden stars. He names each city in his head as they each burst into a web of spun light. He feels a divine contradiction in being able to see everything, yet seeing nothing important. The important information was in the monitor room; M’gann had promised to teach him how to ‘run the board’ as she put it. From here the tiny cities seem to be peaceful flowers of light, even though he knows they are filled with people living their own joys and tragedies.

He also kept a watch on the area behind him and read the lips on the tiny figures of the gathering in the room behind him. He marks their names and marks their faces as they speak, noting who was lying and who was taking sides. Some are people he has seen in civilian clothes in the circus audience, some he only knows from his research. He keeps the closest watch on those he is unfamiliar with. He had lost a lot of trust when the extent of his research became known, he needed to know how to manipulate them if they turned against him...

He is aware he is being watched by the other apprentices and matches face to alias. They’re judging him, wanting to see how dangerous he is. Bruce pulls his eyes away from the peaceful city below, as a weapon being drawn draws his attention to it. Someone he hasn’t met before has decided to test him.

The boy in green draws his bow and knocks an arrow at the same time, aiming for a spot that would be embarrassing but not seriously damaging. The bowstring twangs and Bruce snatches the arrow out of the air without looking around. He turns to look at his attacker and throws the arrow back at him. The archer reaching for his next arrow is surprised, he pauses to step back so the arrow doesn’t hit him in the foot, and Bruce uses the pause to charge.

He covers the distance between them as fast as possible, grabbing the bow by the grip and leaping so the bowstring loops around the archer’s head. He pulls back, the bow string pressing against the green-clad archer’s throat briefly before his opponent rolls with the momentum, kicking up at his head. Bruce dodges back and the archer shifts his weight to unbalance him. They both fall on their backs.

They both roll to their feet at the same time but pause with wary eyes. They are both unsure if they want to turn this into a real fight.

“Truce?” The archer suggests.

“Truce.” Bruce agrees.

They both straighten up and try to look casual.

Bruce looks over to him, sure he recognizes something about him. He crunches the numbers and clicks his fingers as it hits him.

“Oliver Queen?” He asks.

The archer grimaces.

“Is it that obvious?” He asks.

“Only to those already know you.” Bruce says, taking a small pride in not being recognized. He extends a hand. “Bruce Wayne.” He says to make things even.

There is a widening of recognition in Oliver’s eyes.

“Wow, you’re a grim bastard in person.” He says.

“So I’ve been told.” Bruce says neutrally.

Kal folds his arms.

“It’s nice to see I’m not the only one you greet with violence.” He jokes but Bruce knows his habitual hovering, this is a nervous hover.

“Have to establish dominance.” Bruce jokes back and takes a semi-serious combat stance. “Why, you want to go too?”

Kal shakes his head as he hovers closer.

Bruce looks over the group like he could see their greatest weakness stapled to their forehead. His smug look said ‘the only reason I haven’t already destroyed you is you aren’t worth my attention yet.’

“Hmph.” He folds his arms, letting his eyes slowly linger on each member of the team longer than is comfortable.

“Bruce, be nice!” Dick calls out from the next room without looking up from the monitor screen.

Bruce’s expression immediately switches to embarrassed anger at being called out.

“Dick!” He calls back.

“I don’t think that was an unreasonable request.” Diana points out.

“No, that’s not…It’s his name.” Bruce says.

“I was told it was an insult.” Diana looks confused.

“I’ll explain later.” Barry tells her. “Hi Bruce.”

They exchange a circus handshake.

“Howzzit?” Bruce asks.

“Good, you?” Barry asks then realizes he already knows the answer.

Bruce shrugs with one shoulder with his face a careful blank.

“Kal El has told us what happened.” The Amazonian princess, Diana, tells him. His file on her is light compared to the information he had on the others. “I am sorry for your loss.”

“Can’t change the past.” Bruce says neutrally, his face a careful blank and a warning that he doesn’t want to talk about this. “I’m looking to the future.”

He has kept most of his memories from that night separate in his animal mind, where the tragedy isn’t so raw. The pit of despair is there, threatening to swallow him up if he acknowledges it. Later he will mourn for the murder of his second family, the loss of his second home and the death of peace and safety in his life. When he has a moment to himself, when he has dragged himself up enough to acknowledge the abyss below without falling into it, then he will allow the moment to take him.

“I heard you got assigned to the hell city.” Oliver says as he returns the arrow to his quiver.

“I volunteered.” Bruce replies.

Kal’s eyes widen.

“Bruce, heroes get murdered in Gotham!” He says with deep concern.

“I should do something about that.” Bruce replies in a perfect deadpan. “Murder’s illegal.”

Kal frowns and shifts in mid-air like a human would shift weight from foot to foot when uncomfortable. Bruce can tell he wants to say something but doesn’t know how to help. Bruce makes eye contact with him and tries to convey without words that he is not ready to talk about this right now. He fails, maybe he’s too tense or Kal is bad at reading him but he looks even more worried.

Bruce doesn’t know how to reassure him without lying to him; he is not alright.

“Alright, back you vultures.” Barry says half-heartedly and flaps his hands at the group. “Give the man some breathing room, he volunteered for Gotham, he’s got enough problems.”

There are a few eyerolls but people back up enough for Bruce to no longer be putting serious thought into punching someone.

Kal hovers awkwardly just out of reach.

“Bruce, if you need to talk…I’m your friend, right?” He asks.

Bruce nods.

Kal takes a deep breath.

“And because I’m your friend I worry about you and want you to know that it’s okay to ask your friends for help, we’re always going to be here for you but we worry when we don’t know how to help you after what happened with the Owls and if you try to run away again I’m going to kidnap you and keep you prisoner in the Fortress of Solitude until you’re better.” He says all in one breath. “Aunt Kara said I could.” He adds.

Bruce has to supress the urge to laugh at him. It was the earnest way his face was screwed up in concentration that got to him.

“Kal, look at me.” He orders and meets his gaze firmly. “I can promise you that I am merely experiencing delayed shock. Once my body registers I am no longer in danger I may need…help from my friends.” He says. “I promise you that when that time comes I will reach out to you. I don’t have the goblet and candles here but Barry can attest to my promises being reliable, can’t you Barry?”

Barry jolts and nods rapidly.

“Don’t worry.” A voice says from behind them as Dick lays a hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “I am keeping a very close eye on him.” He says meaningfully. “It’s time.”

Bruce nods and his next breath seems to fill him with static electricity. He says a silent goodbye and moves to his mentor’s side.

He falls into step with Dick as they walk to the Meeting Room, his spirit lags half a step behind his body. The atmosphere is as heavy as the air in a thunderstorm, waiting for that one spark to be the pathway for a bolt. Bruce can feel the tension crackle from person to person as they take their place in the room. Bruce looks around without appearing to look around and flicks through his mental files.

On their right Wonder Woman, Donna Troy, stands stiff and formal in her ceremonial armor, in one hand a shield, in the other a sword. Her apprentice, Diana Prince, stands equally formally at her side, the golden spear in one hand tied with a white pennant of peace and her body symbolically sheltered by her mentor's shield.

On his left is Tempest, Garth, keeping his face stoic as stone even though he is wearing the hated ceremonial robes of the Atlantean mage-trained. He bargains with open palms; he doesn’t need a weapon to get fear and respect. His apprentice, Arthur Curry, stands equally alert though less composed at his mentor’s side with the golden Trident of Atlantis that showed his position as heir to the throne held firmly in a mirror of the Amazon’s spear.

Bruce feels underdressed in comparison; he can judge the atmosphere and this seems like a symbolic show of strength, he feels he should at least have a blade in sight to show unity. Sure, he was far from defenceless but they used a subtler kind of knife. Bruce isn’t sure what symbolic meaning bat-shaped shurikens would have but it probably wasn’t good.

The Bat shifts restlessly in its sleep. He had gotten too used to fighting alone; in his fear he had given it too much power. Now it felt the tense atmosphere and stirred, ready to bare its fangs in defence of its home. Bruce forces it back to sleep; now was not the time for fighting. Now was the time to observe. He logs the little details now he is here in person and a small shiver runs down his spine.

This is it.

He is here not as an outside observer, but as a representative of the Justice League. It has its own kind of terror to it; he feels like an actor shoved on stage without a script, where one wrong word would cause the deaths of thousands.

Bruce lets his self drift as far from his body as he dares. He was never the diplomatic one. Dick’s hand on his shoulder is a comfort, he hopes Dick will be able to do the talking for them both.

The delegation from the US Government is the last to arrive, deliberately so. The senator, flanked by two soldiers to the other delegations’ one, shows no sign of hurry as he finds his seat. The soldiers take up position on each side of him with their automatic rifles still pointedly slung over their backs.

Bruce meets the cold steel eyes of Colonel Kane across the room. The Colonel acknowledges him with a brief flicker of a nod and Bruce returns the gesture warily. The significance of them standing on opposite sides of the room doesn’t escape him, nor the fact that the Colonel has Kate, equally formally, at his side. She meets his eyes for a flicker.

“Oh look, it’s a _committee_ of vultures.” Bruce mutters under his breath on nervous impulse and Dick chokes as he tries to supress a laugh.

“Sorry, something in my throat.” He lies and fakes a cough to cover it up.

Kate gives him a look that makes it clear she knows what he said. Bruce returns her gaze calmly.

The US representative gives a small polite cough and gets a thick sheath of papers out of the briefcase in front of him. He shuffles them into an orderly position while the two soldiers stare stoically straight ahead.

“Let's bring this meeting to order then.” The US Representative says. Bruce vaguely recognizes him as General Lane.

Donna steps forwards, her sword held with its point to the ground in a gesture of peace.

“An Amazonian Ambassador was critically injured in a terrorist attack originating from _your_ country Senator. Themyscira will not let this stand; Queen Hippolyta has declared war on this Court of Owls to avenge this insult.” She says in clipped formal tones. Diana thumps the butt of her spear against the ground to punctuate the statement and both US soldiers tense.

“Noble-in-exile, Lady Zira, had her son killed in the same attack.” Garth says, stepping forward. “She has entreated Prince Orim and myself as Prince Regent to avenge his death and has the backing of the Council. The armies of Atlantis stand alongside our Amazonian allies in their declaration of war.”

The blonde boy doesn’t break eye contact as his mentor and regent speaks. He adds an imperious nod to show his support.

Bruce lets the memory rise in him of a father holding the body of his son under the firelight. Now he let himself see with human eyes he recognizes the cut of the sandy blonde hair dappled with blood. Sinclair’s face is calm under the flickering light as his father’s tears turn gold with reflected flame. He had once bragged his mother was a mermaid; Bruce recalled. He hadn’t thought it worth researching further.

The general steeples his fingers.

“On behalf of the US I deeply regret the damage that has been done to your kinsmen and offer our full support in the eradication of this group. It is matter of deep shame to our country that we have let our national embarrassment harm other nations.” He says with a practised calmness. “The state of our least stable city has been a blight on our nation for far too long. We have left Gotham to stew in its own corruption…” Here he pauses and looks directly at Dick, implicitly blaming the Justice League for not solving the problem. Dick's grip tightens on Bruce’s shoulder. “We can no longer wait for _heroes_ to save the day for us. The US Government has deliberated and we are agreed military action is needed. Gotham’s corruption cannot be run rampant any longer; the disease must be burnt out. Now is the time to take extreme action. Colonel Kane, if you would?”

“Sir.” The Colonel nods and takes a step forward. There is a subtle shift of motion as the other delegations prepare for combat. The Colonel meets their gaze calmly. “A decision was made to enact No Man’s Land.” His next words are chilling, though he speaks them without a flicker of emotion in his eyes to betray his true feelings. “Gotham City will no longer be under the protection of the United States.” The colonel says.

“No.” Bruce says.

“Citizens will be given three weeks to evacuate before a military force is sent in to secure the city. We have trained an elite corps of soldiers to provide aid during metahuman conflicts on US soil, designated the Flight. They will serve to spearhead the operation.” The colonel continues.

“No.” Bruce repeats, louder. “You will not turn my home into a warzone, not again.”

Dick’s hand tightens on his shoulder and he gives Bruce a small warning look as he takes a half-step forwards.

“With all due respect, the Justice League cannot condone this path of action.” Dick says smoothly. “The Justice League was founded as an international movement to prevent the loss of life; as their representative on this council I cannot support an action that will result in thousands, if not _millions_ of civilian casualties.”

“Historically, the Justice League has not operated in Gotham.” The general replies equally smoothly. “May it be assumed current events have also caused you to rethink this policy?”

It’s a question with barbs in it but merely a formality, a return blow on the perceived insult.

“The Justice League was also targeted by this attack.” Dick says coolly. “We wish to discourage this behaviour in the future.” He sighs theatrically. “Unfortunately, it is hard to learn any kind of lesson when you are _dead._ ” He puts an equal barb on his last word, but softens it with a smile. “Except under special circumstances.”

The general makes eye contact.

“How would you suggest we solve the Gotham Problem?” He asks.

Dick drums a bar of ‘How do you solve a problem like Maria?’ from the Sound of Music onto Bruce’s shoulder.

“I know this enemy.” He says. “Their tools are fear, secrets and division. They consider themselves to _be_ Gotham, if we send in an army we would destroy them, but a new group would rise to replace them. This cannot be a military operation. Gotham is a volatile enough environment; it would be like trying to put out a fire with gunpowder.” He turns to the other delegations. “Princess Diana, Prince Orin, I do not ask you to do nothing, but to prevent any _future_ attacks the systemic hold the Court has on the city must be broken first.”

Dick straightens up.

“The Justice League was asked for help _before_ the attack on Haly’s Circus.” He says. “We had a vote, it was decided the Justice League needs an official representative in Gotham, and that is me. I have an inside source on the Owls; let me investigate the area before we send in soldiers.”

There is a soft sigh from the Amazon’s side.

“The Amazon’s fear no fight bird man.” Diana tells him. “But our warriors fight when _necessary_. If there is still a possibility for peace, we wish to pursue it.” She thumps the spear butt against the ground to make her point.

“To kill disharmony before it can become a war is the noblest battle.” Donna adds. “The Queen’s warriors will fight in aid of this. What does Atlantis say?”

The golden-haired boy, Arthur Curry to some and Orin Atlan to others, looks over the meeting with his sky-blue eyes unreadable.

“Atlantis desires the killers of Sinclair be brought to justice under the laws of _their own land_.” He says meaningfully. “Laws you are proposing to suspend. How then could he be meaningfully avenged?” He asks and thumps the butt-end of the trident against the ground.

“We understand these killers to have been enhanced by unknown methods. The Weaponsmasters of Atlantis pledge a unit of Artic Lances. Training in their use will be given to the surface dwellers tasked with apprehending them. Is this acceptable to all present?” Garth adds.

It appears to be. The Crown Prince of Atlantis nods his approval.

“Themyscira will lend aid _when needed_.” Diana adds. “The Amazons await the call to battle.”

The general doesn’t budge an inch.

“Very well, we will assign a military liaison, Flight Commander, step forward.” He orders.

Kate steps forwards and salutes.

“Flight Commander Katherine Kane.” She introduces herself. “I look forward to working with you closely. The remaining members of the Flight will wait on standby for further orders.”

Her maroon eyes are unreadable as hard as two slices of ruby.

“There will be no police state in my city.” Dick says with his eyes equally hard. “No soldiers on the streets, no secret police, no martial law. We operate as disaster prevention, not a legal authority. Is that understood?” Dick asks.

There is assent from the room.

“Then it is agreed. Flight Commander, I request you get sworn in as a probationary member of the Justice League and your men sworn in as probationary auxiliaries. As always it is understood that your loyalty to your respective nation comes first.” Dick concludes. “Donna, will you be standing as representative of the Amazons in this?” He asks.

Donna shakes her head.

“My Queen requests Diana serve in my place.” She says. “Hippolyta wishes her to gain a greater understanding of Man’s world.”

Dick inclines his head respectfully.

“Gotham is not typical of humanity, thank gods, but we welcome the support of our Amazonian allies in this task.” He says. “Prince Regent, will you be assigning a representative?”

Garth shakes his head.

“Commander Murk of the Royal Guard has volunteered for the service of training our allies in the use of the Artic Lance. We trust in his judgement.” He says.

“The Justice League thanks you for your assistance.” Dick tells him and the tension crackles and fades from the air.

Bruce feels himself settle more as specifics are discussed, how many soldiers will be retained, and where, conditions on conditions of the provision of Atlantean weapons, the desert dry legal language wrapped in three separate legal traditions. The truly dangerous time is passed. Bruce meets Kate’s eyes from across the room. She stands ready for battle with a hardness in her eyes that goes beyond a military lifestyle. Bruce feels a stab of guilt at not knowing what has hardened her; she was family after all but he knew next to nothing about her…At least he will have time to correct that. He got the feeling that Kate would be either a steadfast ally or a dangerous enemy. He hoped for the former but prepared for the latter.

To his relief the meeting ends without a fight.

“Glad to see we could reach an agreement.” The general says, offering a firm handshake. “Kate will serve you well, she’s an excellent officer and it’s good to see someone _human_ on the team.”

Dick doesn’t bat an eyelid.

“If you are fishing for information on what superhuman abilities I possess, you will be disappointed.” He says with full honesty. “Goodbye General Lane, and good luck dealing with your superiors.”

Outside of the formalness of the meeting room General Lane lets a look of pain pass over his face. No doubt his superiors were looking for an excuse to annex Gotham, Dick wouldn’t put it past the Owls to be behind this ‘No Man’s Land’.

They could evacuate, let the military ravage the land and agitate the population, then buy up what was left and recruit a new Talon from the strongest of the survivors. After the hell they had created there would be no shortage of volunteers to be their soldiers if it meant avoiding that hell, they would sweep in with their money as self-declared saviors after the fact.

Of course Gotham was hell enough without the No Man’s Land…

He sighs softly to himself as the military delegation leaves.

“Do you really think Gotham can be saved?” He asks Bruce quietly.

“My parents believed it could.” Bruce replies equally softly. “So I do too.”

Dick pulls him into a brief one-handed hug.

“We’re going to find out the hard way then.” He says and sighs. “Bruce, about what you said in the meeting…”

“Am I in trouble?” Bruce immediately asks.

“No, no, that’s not what I mean…” Dick says and rests a hand on his hair. “Bruce I…You’re not alone. I want revenge too, it was my home and…” He sighs again as he fails to put words to his feelings. “I’m not going to let anyone take it away from us again. I promise I will keep you safe.”

 _You won’t,_ Bruce thinks in a moment of terrible clarity, _but you will try and that’s what counts._

“I know.” He says out loud. “Dick I…I don’t want to be alone anymore. _We_ can do this, as a family.” He offers a hand.

Dick gives a small sad smile and takes it. Bruce gives his hand a reassuring squeeze.

“Yeah, we can do this.” Dick says. “Just the two of us.”

Bruce frowns a small frown and opens his mouth to say that was _not_ what he meant, but Dick is already moving on.

“The Owls are going to _pay,_ an eye for an eye, blood for blood, and _I’m_ going to do it.” Dick mutters under his breath in staccato bursts. His fingers twitch. “No more lost homes, no more broken families. It ends, it all ends…”

He notices the concern on Bruce’s face and offers a reassuring smile.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t mutter.” He apologizes and rotates his shoulders. “I’m just feeling antsy after that meeting. Diplomatic talks are always a nauseating blend of tense and boring.”

Bruce pulls a face and Dick laughs to see he understands it.

“Yeah, me too bud.” He says with a smile. “If you’re not busy ‘fighting for dominance’ with the junior heroes can you give me a hand with something important?” He asks.

Bruce lets the jab slide.

“What do you need help with?” He asks.

“Interrogating a prisoner.” Dick says.

Bruce follows him down the corridors.

“We have a prisoner?” He asks with a small frown.

“We do.” Dick confirms with a brisk nod. “He’ll be the key in breaking the Owls, but he’ll need…persuading.”

Bruce knows what that little pause means. It means torture. He frowns up at Dick with silent disapproval.

“Think you can do good cop, bad cop?” Dick asks him.

“…I like good cop, bad cop.” Bruce says cautiously.

“Good, follow my lead.” Dick says.

Dick pushes open the door and there stands a Talon. He stands ready, unrestrained, with cold eyes looking down at him. The Bat hisses and spreads its wings wide to intimidate. The Bird grabs him before he can swoop and holds him.

“It’s okay Bruce.” Dick hisses as Bruce snaps back to himself. “He’s had cryobombs implanted in him, we can take him down at the tap of a button.”

Bruce glares at the Talon. Richard looks back, entirely unafraid despite being held prisoner. He leans back against his seat with his arms folded and steely eyes cold and blank.

“Why is _he_ here?” Bruce growls.

Dick folds his arms.

“Richard here is going to take us to the Owls.” He says.

Richard blinks slowly.

“No.” He says without a change in his tone or expression.

“You have no idea what you've done do you?" Dick asks with his voice dangerously soft. "You tried to kill my son so you’ve pissed off the Question and Spoiler and Flash and Superwoman, hell let’s just call it most of the Justice League, _and_ their friends. Queen Kori’ander of Tamaran would be _happy_ to take you into custody on their behalf. Supervillains have children too, it happens, a few villain organizations disapprove of the targeting of a family on principle. They have shown a _personal_ interest in discouraging this behavior. They are ruthless, brutal killers with no morals that _want you dead._ ”

Dick glares at the Talon.

“Now you’ve put me in the very uncomfortable position where I have to defend your damn city from your own stupidity. The government wants to enact No Man’s Land; seal everyone in for a few years then arrest the survivors. You don’t want that.”

“Bloody chaos suits the Court’s purposes just fine.” Richard’s voice is impassive, his face a calm and empty mask. “Let there be war, they will rise reborn from the ashes.”

Dick slams his hands on the table loudly.

“Screw what the Court wants, **_you_ ** don’t want that!” He snarls.

Richard’s impassive mask breaks, just for a fraction of a second, and Dick goes for the throat.

“I _know_ you Richard, you never bought into their rhetoric like the other Talons, you only obeyed the Owls because you’re afraid of them. You want them gone as much as I do.”

“There are worse fates then death.” Richard whispers with a genuine fear in his voice. “You don’t know what they’ll do to me if I betray them.”

“You know what they say about cats, there’s more than one way to skin them.” Dick stabs a knife into the table between two of Richard’s fingers. The blade vibrates with a dull hum as it sticks to the hilt through the metal of the table’s surface. “You _should_ be afraid of what I’ll do to you if you don’t.”

“Dick!” Bruce says, appalled, and Dick’s eyes shift over to him as if unaware he was still in the room.

“Leave if you’re offended.” Dick says quietly.

“Dick he’s a prisoner, you can’t…!” Bruce says in shock.

“He’ll heal.” Dick argues back, not moving his eyes from the target. “Now go; I don’t want you seeing this.”

“Dick…” Bruce starts to say.

Dick points a blade at him.

“Go. Now.” He orders in a growl without breaking eye-contact with the prisoner.

Bruce makes sure the fear is real in his eyes when he meets the prisoner’s gaze as he leaves. There is a flicker in in the Talon’s steely eyes, a very real moment of uncertainty. He closes the door behind him and the soundproof barrier seals.

Bruce carefully walks to the other side of the corridor, leans with his back against the wall opposite the wall and slowly slips down it. He draws his knees up to his chest as his own breathing seems to rattle in his ears. Maybe the lights really have dimmed, or maybe it’s just him, but the corridor seems darker as he waits alone. Time takes that shifting, intangible quality where every second seems an eternity but an hour could pass without you realizing it.

There had been less acting in there than he would have liked. Like him, part of Dick still thought it was fighting. It wouldn’t let them rest or process what had happened until it thought the battle was over. Bruce had thought he could reach that point and feel safe enough to feel again, but the sight of the Talon had filled his mouth with the remembered taste of blood and ash. His skin prickled with old fear and it was clear to him he wasn’t safe, this was just a brief rest before the next attack. Surely Dick feels it too, surely that’s why his smiles grew fake at the edges.

Bruce stares at the door and tries to tell himself Dick wouldn’t torture anyone. It was just a threat to scare a cowardly criminal, he wouldn’t go through with it, even if they would heal, Dick wouldn’t torture someone…He chants it over and over but the metal door gives nothing up under his dark eyes, seeming to grow and loom in his vision as he imagines he can hear the faint traces of phantom sounds creeping out from under it. He’s not sure why it is this he has chosen to fixate on, he has seen worse, he has _done_ worse, with his own hands even. He hadn’t been squeamish when the League of Shadows showed him how to inflict pain, and the Talon wasn’t a real person anyway, they were already dead. They attacked his home, they deserved to suffer but Bruce still stares at the door and tells himself that echo of a scream is just his imagination. Dick didn’t torture because he was someone who cared about other people, the one that people liked, that made them feel safe and loved. Dick was the _good_ one. Bruce was the one who ruined everything and couldn’t talk to people and bought pain to everyone around him to stop the burning under his skin.

Dick had to be the Good one because Bruce knew he was the _Bad_ one and if not being able to be Good like Dick made Dick go Bad like him then… _it…was…his…fault_.

The door opens with barely a whisper, though Bruce’s brain substitutes a doom-laden titanic groaning of metal. He stands as Dick pulls the door closed behind him.

“There’s nothing Richard cares about more than saving his own skin.” Dick tells him. “As long as we remind him he’s better off on our side, we have our inside man.” He tries a reassuring smile too fragile to be real.

Bruce tells himself that brief gleam on Dick’s glove was his imagination, not light reflecting off fresh black blood on black fabric.


	24. Gotham City

Coming home to Gotham was a sombre experience.

It was night when they arrived in Gotham, a moonless night with the stars swallowed by clouds but the lights of the city are a grounded constellation of their own. There was no fire on the horizon; sheer luck that there wasn’t a lunatic burning the city tonight. A winter chill was on the still air, metallic with the promise of future snow. The damp air is undecided if it is a light rain or a heavy mist and the horizon is a solid block of steel grey cloud reflecting the city lights below. The car, sleek and new with factory fresh paint, slips off the highway and heads towards the familiar shape of the manor’s lights. For now they’ve avoided the cameras. For now the night was peaceful.

The two cardboard boxes that contained everything they own rest in the back seats. The fire had taken everything from them. It was supposed to; it had been designed to destroy their home. Everything that was familiar, everything that was safe, nothing had been untouched by the flames. They arrived with nothing. What survived was just a reminder of what they had lost, neither of them wanted to go back for it. It was easier to move on and start afresh. Practical things only, nothing to remind them of what had been lost.

The night stretched endlessly in front of him. The faint lights of houses on the horizon could be fallen stars for how distant they seemed from Bruce as he sits in the car.

Part of him still felt he was back on the watchtower, watching the sky and above it all, gently cradled by the eternal night of the universe. When it came, that part re-entering the world will be every bit as painful, fiery and destructive as re-entering the atmosphere. Another perverse part of him is looking forward to it. Better to burn up in harsh reality than drift into nothingness, it says. Bruce views it as dispassionately as he views the animal that stirs in his chest at the familiar sights and sounds. Neither of them are _him_ in the way that the calm intelligence that was currently caretaking his body was. Soon, and it would always be too soon, the time for emotions would come. The present moment was for action.

Bruce looks at Dick, his face looking unearthly under the high contrast of the highway lights. There was not a hint of a smile on it, none of the good cheer he used as a defence against the darkness of the world. He looked like a soldier. With the highway lights casting his face in shadows Bruce could really _believe_ he had once been Talon. Even though they were only sitting a few inches apart, Bruce had no idea how to bridge the gap that was growing between them.

In the dark and the quiet Bruce prepares for a war. Right now, he is expected to be a soldier, so he will be a soldier.

It was a relief to be able to put his sorrow aside if only for a moment and focus on the familiar preparations. This wasn’t their annual friendly visit to the city; this was a Mission. There were things that had to be done, plans that had to be made, he sinks himself into these wholeheartedly. There were rules, there were laws, they made sense and they imposed structure on the world. Without them there was only failure. He was one of the lucky ones; few failed a test for the League of Shadows and survived. The real world had its own ways of punishing what Damian called the sins of overconfidence. Bruce had seen what happened to those that neglected their preparations before a Mission. They failed, whether they lived or not, they had failed. He must not fail now.

His resolve holds as the car turns towards a set of lights as familiar as the back of his hand. _Home_ , the animal part of him whispers, _A roost with family. A place to rest, lick wounds and heal. Safe._

He grabs his box from the car and exchanges a brief nod with Dick as they walk down the driveway. He had his Mission, he had his weapons and he had a base to plan from, that was all he needed. Familiar gravel crunches under his feet as he once again makes his way to the door where a figure stands silhouetted by the warm lights of home.

“Welcome home Master Bruce.” Alfred says.

Bruce breaks down.

He’s not sure why it is this, this little thing, that pushes him over the edge but it does. The tears start flowing and he can’t make them stop. The life flows out of him with the tears and his limbs go numb as he falls to his knees. The sorrow crashes over him like a breaking wave and he is drowning, drowning in that darkness with each breath a struggle to pull in. He can’t fight it more than he could fight the tides so he lets the storm break over him and carry him away.

He cries, he cries for Sinclair’s cooling body held in the arms of his sobbing father, he cries for Eli who walked into the flames, he cries for Zenya with blood blooming dark from the stab wound. He cries for all those hurt by the flames, those who died before he could save them and those whose bodies were never found. Once that sorrow had welled up then flowed out of him like bile he cried for his own loss. He cried for the caravans and the tents and the dusty fairgrounds in the summer that turned to sludge under the winter rains. He cried for the sun-bleached paint of the signs that peeled from the ancient wood, he cried for the memory of highway lights at midnight, the faint rocking of the caravan on the road lulling him to sleep. He cries for the home he can never get back. He cries because he could not save it. He cries because the things that are lost can never return.

His tears are bitter, they flow like pus being drained from an infected wound until Bruce could swear they’re cutting through his skin in red trails. His heart hurts like a red-hot blade is being twisted in it, sinking slowly deeper inch by terrible inch. He cries until he has run out of tears to give and there is nothing but his shuddering gasps for breath and the pain of loss. He lets the feelings overwhelm him, they beat on him like waves on a shore, but he lets the moment be. He allows himself to mourn, to feel all the feelings he could not when the battle came, and he does not reject them. He accepts them and allows them their time and, like any storm, that great and terrible sorrow eventually comes to pass.

The life bleeds back into his body slowly. Time returns to his world. He draws in a deep breath to steady the shuddering, holds it, then lets it go. He closes his tear-blurring eyes and when he opens them again he can see and feel again. There are two sets of warm arms curled around his shoulders, they keep him anchored to his body and away from the darkness.

“Thank you.” Bruce says, his voice sticking in his throat from the tears. “I’m sorry I…”

“There’s no need to apologize Master Bruce.” Alfred tells him.

“I…I can stand.” Bruce clears his throat. “That was bound to happen sometime. It wasn’t…it wasn’t your fault. It just had to happen.”

Bruce manages to get to his feet. His legs shake at first and he forces them to be still. He feels drained but cleansed now his bottled-up emotions have been let out. The sadness still lurks, an endless sea of darkness close enough to lick at his feet, but it is still and no longer threatening to swallow him. He has found a small peace, a tiny island of calm on which he can rest and catch his breath. It is a fragile peace, that darkness is still so close and so strong, but it’s a position he can build on.

Dick helps him up and Bruce can see he still has the cornered animal wariness behind his eyes. He is still afraid, still holding the sea at bay. He has to find a place to stand his ground, then Bruce hopes he could find an island too. There is something of a question in Dick’s guarded eyes; where was the danger and how can it be escaped? He wants to know how to help, to make them safe.

“Food.” Bruce says as an explanation.

Dick nods and walks at his side as they step over the threshold. Bruce doesn’t doubt for a second if he couldn’t walk Dick would have carried him. Alfred shuts the door behind them and it locks with a click, and just like that he is home again. Part of him feels like he has never left, like the past nine years have been nothing but an extended holiday. Bruce breathes in the familiar smells of wood polish and Alfred’s preferred brand of cleaning products and, distantly, the smell of a roast dinner. This place was a home, this was a place he could be safe and _plan._ He had heard the phrase that a man’s home was his castle. He was prepared to make that phrase as literal as possible, if it meant digging a moat and filling it with crocodiles.

Alfred insists on them waiting while he reheated the food. Dick and Bruce sit across the table from each other, neither wants to sit at the table’s head. A cloud of darkness seems to hang over the absent seat, as if the ghost of Thomas Wayne is still sitting there. Dick silently stands guard from the other side of the table, tensed as if he’s ready for assassins to break in through the windows any second. His eyes don’t leave the windows and the night outside until a plate is set in front of them.

The food is hot and good and familiar when it arrives.

It fills some of the emptiness left by Bruce’s mourning; physically his body needs the nourishment to replace the lost energy, but on an emotional level it comforts him to know that not everything has been lost. The animal part of him relaxes now it is safe in the roost. This was his city, his home, his territory. Here was where he would make his final stand against everyone who tried to hurt it. By the time dinner finishes Bruce already has the beginnings of a plan starting to take form.

“I understand you have things to move in?” Alfred asks as he clears the table.

“I’ve got it handled.” Dick replies, faster and sharper than is polite and winces. “Sorry, still a bit jetlagged.” He says with a laugh that would be convincing to anyone else.

Bruce knows he is lying, they didn’t fly here, but he also knows why Dick is acting this way. The animal mind doesn’t want what little it had taken away, even by an ally. It became sharp and defensive. Anything it couldn’t see wasn’t secure. Dick rubs the back of his neck sheepishly.

“Perhaps a guest room can be opened up? We will be discussing business with many partners after hours and a place for them to stay would be appreciated.” He asks.

“Any special requirements I should know about?” Alfred asks.

“Just put down some rubber sheets beforehand.” Bruce says, and it surprises him that he has said it out loud. He hadn’t meant to, but by the way eyes are now on him he has, and he can’t take it back.

Part of him had been more unsettled than he thought. He won’t apologize. He needs to know where they stand, there’s no way to do this that isn’t going to hurt.

“Bruce.” Dick gives him a warning glare.

“Dick.” Bruce meets his gaze without flinching.

“I already told you, Richard is a coward. I just wanted to scare him. Besides he's a prisoner, not a guest.” Dick replies.

“So you’ll chain him to the radiator in the basement then.” Bruce snarks, taking refuge in sarcasm as the unsettled part of him takes over his tongue and lashes out, looking for comfort and finding none.

“You’re just disappointed you couldn’t torture him yourself.” Dick states.

A cold prickle of mingled guilt and anger sweeps over Bruce.

“That’s irrelevant.” Bruce replies as coldly as he can manage.

“Oh, that’s _irrelevant?_ ” Dick presses the point. His hackles are up and his eyes gleaming with wounded animal aggression. He’s lashing out too and his words cut deep.

“It’s irrelevant because I’m the bad one.” Bruce snaps. “I have evil thoughts I can’t stop and I do my best to _control_ them, not act on them!”

“Bruce, you’re not bad.” Dick sighs. “It tears you up inside that the Owls manipulated you into killing, you’d do anything to stop that from happening again. I’ve seen bad and you’re not it. You’re a marshmallow.”

Bruce throws his knife at him. Dick catches it and lays it next to his own plate.

“Both of you stop this at once.” Alfred steps between them and breaks their eye contact. He gives them both a stern look. They both look down rather than meet the steel in his eyes. “Now sort this out like civilized gentlemen.” Alfred orders.

“Pistols at dawn?” Bruce immediately suggests.

A faint smile twitches the corners of Dick's mouth but Alfred is unamused.

“Keep this up and there will be no dessert for you Master Bruce.” He makes an ultimatum and Bruce winces. He likes Alfred’s desserts. “Use your talking words.” Alfred adds, mimicking the psychologists of Bruce’s childhood with a tint of sarcasm.

Bruce takes a deep breath and steels himself.

“Dick, I’m worried about you.” He says, forcing the words past his discomfort. They’re coming out harsh and accusing, but he can’t stop it without his throat seizing up entirely. “You’re losing touch with people, I don’t want you going to the dark.”

“I'm not...” Dick pauses and pinches the bridge of his nose against a growing headache. “Your concern is noted, but I have everything under control.”

Bruce questions that statement with nothing but his eyes and Dick winces.

“Guess I’ve really been worrying you, huh buddy?” He says and rubs at the back of his neck sheepishly. “Look, we have to see Babs tonight anyway to work out patrol details. I’ll show you, there’s nothing to worry about. I’m fine.”

Bruce knows Dick isn’t fine.

He wants to help but he doesn’t know what to say to make things better. He wasn’t the friendly one, he didn’t know how to comfort Dick or make him feel safe. Bruce stays silent and hopes that Dick knows what he is feeling without having to say it. He hopes Dick is right. He prays that it was just his paranoia that was making him doubt. He wants things to be alright, he wants it badly, but not enough to pretend nothing is wrong.

Damian taught that denial was among the greatest of humanity’s flaws; a shadow sees the world as it is then acts to change it. With a dawning sense of horror Bruce realizes that he’s going to have to look after Dick now. He’s not ready for it but abandoning someone he cares about to the dark isn’t worth thinking about. He forces back the wave of fear that turns his stomach at the thought of it.

Fine, he will do this.

Dick had helped him through so many tragedies, it was his turn now. He would protect Dick. He would stop him from going to the dark and he would make a home here where Dick would be safe if he had to personally punch out everyone in Gotham to do it. He forces his body to relax and chooses his words as carefully as he chose his weapons.

“Dick I…I was just worried. Am. I am worried.” Bruce says carefully. “Things are…not good. I don’t know what to do about that. I don’t want to lose you to…this. To _them._ ”

“I love you too Bruce.” Dick says with a soft smile.

“There, was that so hard?” Alfred says.

 _Yes_! Bruce screams wordlessly, to Cassandra it would be a wail like someone had stood on a cat. He permits himself the indiscretion, no-one who noticed would scold him for it.

Alfred rests a comforting hand briefly on his shoulder as he passes. Bruce draws some comfort from the fleeting pressure. He is out of his depth but, well, he’d never run away from a challenge before.

“We should see Barbara.” He agrees. “She’ll be able to offer…insight.” _Because I have no idea how to help you._ He silently adds in his head.

He knew that Dick and Aunt Barbara had a…relationship in the past, with all the complications that the pause implies. There had been one clear picture of her that spread through all the papers; Athene, Warrior of Wisdom, the Little Owl, with her spear in hand and red hair streaming from under her gleaming helmet. She had been smiling then. She had been a good hero, good enough the Court of Owls tried to kill her for it. She survived and clawed her way back, first as Oracle and now as an officer of the Gotham Police force. If anyone would know how to recover from the Owls it was her.

They are apparently both forgiven enough to earn dessert. It is as good as Bruce remembers and only strengthens his resolve. This is his home; he is going to protect it and everyone that was part of it.

Bruce grabs the dirty plates from the table and carries them to the kitchen without being asked. He fills the sink with hot water, adds dish-washing soap and pulls on rubber gloves as bubbles start to foam up. Grabbing the scrubbing brush, he hums a circus tune under his breath as he scrubs at a stubborn stain. The stains fade away under the pressure of the brush as he slips into a half meditative state while his body moves on autopilot. He makes plans, reduces variables, tries to prepare for the most likely scenarios…A prickling on his skin lets Bruce know he is being observed. He looks up to see Alfred standing in the doorway watching him.

“Am I doing it wrong?” He asks sheepishly as a wave of embarrassment breaks over him. He suddenly and violently doubts he is capable of properly washing dishes.

“…No…” Alfred’s voice is soft. “I’m just surprised.” He clears his throat. “I never thought I would see you doing dishes.”

“I can stop?” Bruce asks, confused.

“No, no, no you’ve started something and you should finish it.” Alfred says with a small smile. “Be sure to dry everything properly before you put them away.”

Bruce nods and turns back to scrubbing.

He keeps the water hot enough to nearly burn him through the gloves to keep himself in his body. Bruce took his turn at clean-up like everyone else (and now that thought is edged with pain). It made for good thinking time. His body could go through the motions automatically while he set his mind to another task. He finishes washing the dishes, drains and cleans the sink then turns to the piles of dishes to dry. He takes a dish cloth and begins carefully drying them. It was only after he had a stack of dishes cleaned and dried that he realizes he has no idea where they go. This is the first time he’s been in the kitchen for reasons other than trying to steal snacks before dinner.

“Where am I putting these?” He asks with a look of honest puzzlement.

Alfred chuckles and steps forwards to help him. He grabs a stack of still warm plates and opens the cupboard. Bruce follows his lead and starts putting the rest of the plates away.

“It has been lonely cooking for one.” Alfred sighs. “These days I fear I feel more like a curator than a butler.”

Bruce winces.

“I’m used to curator being a euphemism for an assassin.” He explains.

Alfred snorts in derision.

“In my day they called themselves cleaners; at least they recognized it was dirty work.” He says. “Curators…now that’s delusions of grandeur.”

“Maybe in the future they’ll be janitors.” Bruce replies in a perfect deadpan.

“Maybe so.” Alfred says and smiles a small smile. “I have missed you Master Bruce.” He adds fondly. “I only wish you could have returned in better circumstances.” He rests a hand on Bruce’s shoulder.

Bruce flexes his fingers. The skin is still reddened from the recent heat of the water. It’s a grounding sensation. He breathes out and steels himself.

“I need something from you.” He says.

Alfred frowns.

“What is it Master Bruce?” He asks.

“Please…” Bruce’s voice fails him from a moment. “You have to look after Dick. This has to be a safe place for him.” He makes it an order and hates it’s the only way he can get the words out.

Alfred smiles and rests his hand on Bruce’s shoulder.

“It will be.” He says to reassure him.

Bruce nods, his gaze already hardening with determination.

“Master Bruce…” Alfred asks and whatever it was he was planning on saying his nerve is the one to fail when Bruce’s dark eyes meet his. “Stay safe out there.”

“We will.” Dick says from the doorway. “Bruce, get suited up, we leave in ten.” Dick tells him.

“Master Dick…Under the current circumstances…Are you sure this is wise?” Alfred asks.

“Nothing I do is wise.” Dick replies.

“That is not the ringing endorsement you think it is.” Alfred frowns.

“It’s the best I’ve got.” Dick replies with a smile. He rests a comforting hand on the butler’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep a close eye on him.”

Alfred sighs.

“There really is no discouraging him when he gets an idea in his head.” The butler smiles fondly. “I did something similar when I was young…” He fixes Dick with a stern glare. “Promise me you will _both_ come home.”

“It’s a standard meet-and-greet, we’ll barely be patrolling.” Dick reassures him. “I promise he’ll get home safely.”

Alfred gives him a Look that says he is clearly ruing his misfortune that both his charges were stubborn idiots. Dick gives a sheepish grin.

“ _We’ll_ come home.” He corrects.

“Better.” Alfred says steps aside to let Bruce pass by.

Bruce gets ready to patrol. His tools had survived the fire, sealed in the case the League of Shadows had given him for concealment. His trailer had not, but as Bruce opens the case the dark fabric within seems to have trapped some of the comfort of home within it. He breathes out and for the first time, he gets ready to patrol at his Dick's side.

His focus narrows as he puts on each part of the suit with the solemnness of a knight preparing for battle. With every piece of dark armor his fears and excitement faded away, leaving his mind honed as sharp as a knife. As the mask seals over his face his heart is calm. He needed to be more than Bruce Wayne in this armor, like an actor puts on a costume and becomes their role he lets his self slip away. The dark figure that meets his eyes in the mirror is somehow something more than Bruce Wayne. In the mirror behind him he could feel the lurking darkness of the Bat waking and stretching its dark wings and the part that was always watching, the part that was the Man, beginning its observation. He has one on each shoulder, like an angel and a devil, the superego and the id, logos and pathos, order and chaos...

“My will is the strength of the water eroding mountains through constant pressure. My heart is the still air at the center of every tempest. My wrath is the ember that burns underfoot when wildfires have passed. My body is the mountain’s heart of unyielding stone. In all things I have discipline. In all elements I have control.” Bruce quietly recites the mantra of the elements to himself and steels his resolve.

The shape in the mirror could have been one from his nightmares, sleek solid black armor with his tools holstered at his hips and a bandolier of blades across his chest. The gauntlets were tipped with claws and had a row of serrated spines that could fold out from the gauntlet’s edge. The ribbed cape arched over his shoulders and cascaded down his back, ready to be used as a shock blanket, or a glider, or simply to misdirect. The mask was the most inhuman part, he had taken the mask Thomas Wayne had once worn to a masquerade ball and extended it down the cheeks in black streaks like dripping tears or slices of midnight cut into the flesh. The eyes in the mask are an unreadable white he can make glow with the faintest twitch.

The dark figure stands proudly, it seems to know what to do. Bruce lets it take the wheel. There would be time for him to be just Bruce later, for now he was a nightmare, he was the night, he was the Bat.

His feet are silent on the carpeted floor as the boots deadened the sound. He moves like a slice of shadow, light and floating as he shifts across the stairs and catches sight of Dick waiting below. It’s a bizarre feeling seeing him in full uniform, not hiding it or trying to conceal it. For the first time Bruce can really see how the figure he has thought of for years as his dad fits into the feather-marked armor. Dick looks back up at him, his eyes unreadable behind the lenses of his own mask but his body first relaxing then tensing in other places. Bruce drops down the side of the stairs and lands beside him, the curious cock of his head a silent question. Dick pulls him into a tight hug, and Bruce returns it.

“This was always going to happen, wasn’t it?” Dick says to himself. “I wanted a better life for you, you’re still so young.”

“I’m old enough to make my own choices.” Bruce says firmly. “And this was something I _chose._ ”

“I know.” Dick sighs. “But it doesn’t mean I didn’t wish things were different.” He smiles a small sad smile. “Parents always wish for what is best for their children.”                                          

His smile gets a little less sad and a little closer to being genuine as he kisses Bruce’s forehead.

“Come on, I’ll show you the ropes.” He says and ruffles Bruce’s hair.

For a moment Bruce is ten again, and up on the trapezes for the first time, with the ground seeming so far away but Dick’s hand seeming so close as he reaches towards him. He remembers the way Dick smiled when Bruce trusted him enough to take his hand and step out into the air, and smiles too. They’re a team again, wounded and broken maybe, but a team still.

“Race you to the Police Station?” He suggests with a genuine smile.

“Really Bruce?” Dick grins.

“Scared you’re going to lose old man?” Bruce adds.

Dick gasps in mock indignation.

“I’m not that old yet!” He says.

“Prove it.” Bruce challenges and bolts for the bikes with the sound of Dick’s laughter rising behind him.

“I’m giving you a head start on purpose!” Dick calls after him as he gives chase across the lawn.

Eventually they are going to have to make a proper base of operations; the manor is secluded enough that their nearest neighbours are literally miles away, but it’s not going to stay secret for long. Apparently he owned properties in the city, he would have to ask Jason how to turn them into safehouses when he next saw him, but for now the League had approved some expenditure of League funds to get them proper transport. They could hardly use civilian vehicles to get around and what is waiting for him under the eaves of the courtyard is something that makes him smile. Bless Victor; he has been prepared while Bruce was training.

Bruce reaches the bat-cycle first and offers a brief thanks to Jason as he kickstarts it. He knew specializing in the ‘iron horses’ as Damian called them was a good idea. The engine roars to life as he drags it around in a circle and leaps onto it. He pulls the motorcycle into a wheelie like a rearing horse for the dramatic effect of it. His grandstanding lets Dick catch up and the bikes are neck and neck as they streak out of the manor gates.

The highway beyond is completely empty of cars; it’s begging to be raced on. The flat black strip of asphalt heading towards the grounded stars of the city calls to something in his blood. The wide-open expanse of black horizon seems to be calling for him to touch it. Bruce opens up the throttle and chases the skyline. The speed sings in his blood as the need for constant readjustment and split-second reactions in running the race wipes away the ability for them to think about anyone else. For a moment he feels like he is flying.

He beats Dick into the city by a full three seconds and feels compelled to pull another wheelie to rub it in, before the complexities of navigating Gotham traffic take over and the race is forgotten.

Gotham City Police Station was the one building that was bustling with activity every time of the day. At night it looked like an overturned ant hill of blue army ants twinkling with blue and red lights. It would be impossible to approach the front doors unseen and even a hero would be lost in the crush, so they didn’t bother with front doors.

They park the bikes a few blocks away from the station and pull over the camo hides that turn them from marvels of modern engineering to inconsequential wrecks, before proceeding on foot.

Compared to the eternal lights of the cityscape around them the rooftop of Gotham Central Police Station was an oasis of shadows. Against the darkness of the little used roof door was a single spark of glowing orange light. As they touch down on the concrete a cloud of white smoke billows upwards, picking up traces of blue and red from the lights below.

“Justice League Senior Internal Affairs Officer and Trainee reporting for duty.” Dick announces them and stands at attention. Bruce does the same.

“As designated Police Liaison for the City of Gotham I welcome you to the city and offer you the full support of the Gotham City Police.” Barbara repeats a formal address somewhat sarcastically. “At least the bit of it that isn’t incompetent, cowards or criminally corrupt, so that’s twelve on a good day.” She adds.

“Just like old times, eh Babs?” Dick smiles and leans against the wall.

“Just like old times.” Barbara repeats and a wistful silence fills the air between them as they think of all the other times they had met up on this same rooftop.

“Do you two need a moment alone?” Bruce adds. “Because I can do that.”

Barbara smiles.

“It’s nice to see you too Bruce.” Barbara says and pulls Bruce into a hug. Bruce puts up with it stoically as he ruffles his hair. “How are you holding up?”

“Been better, been worse.” Bruce says diplomatically with a perfect lack of emotion.

“Anything you need, even if it’s just to talk, I’m here for you.” Barbara tells him. “If you need help, give me a call.”

“I know.” Bruce says and the next words stick in his throat. He pushes them out anyway. “And I will.”

The promise seems to crackle as he says it, like the static before a storm, but he is the only one who notices. The conversation moves on regardless.

“I hear you’re the commissioner now.” Dick says. “Quite a promotion.”

“It doesn’t make things much easier, just means I’m the person people expect to fix everything now.” Barbara says with a small wry smile. “Herding cats is a cakewalk compared to trying to police Gotham. We make do with what we have.” Barbara sighs. “But hope in Gotham died when the Waynes did. Sorry Bruce.”

“No…I know.” Bruce says with a soft sigh. “I…should have been back to help earlier.”

“You’re seventeen.” Barbara says with a small shake of her head. “You’re not responsible for this tire-fire of a city.”

Bruce frowns.

“My name, my family, my city.” He states simply. “I’m responsible.”

“You can’t take the blame for _everyone’s_ mistakes.” Barbara points out and Dick smiles. “ _Either_ of you.” Dick’s smile turns to a look of embarrassment and he briefly looks at his feet.

“Do you have any cases for us?” Bruce asks her.

“Here, every case we’re accepting help on.” She says.

Barbara holds out a folder to them. Bruce takes it before Dick can and starts to look through. There’s only three case files in it and none of them are anything big; vandalism, theft, and loan non-payment.

“That’s a pretty thin folder for Gotham.” Dick points out.

“Right now you’re still rookies on this beat.” Barbara replies. “Once you can prove you’ve got a feel for the streets I can bring you in on the bigger cases.”

Bruce nods.

“We can do something about these.” He promises.

“Don’t make promises for the both of us.” Dick gently scolds him. “You’re the trainee here, but yes, we should be able to do something about this.”

“We'll do you proud.” Bruce nods.

“I know you will little detective.” Barbara smiles.

“Barbara…can I speak with you privately?” Bruce solemnly asks.

Dick gives him a look. Barbara dismisses it with a wave of her hand.

“Go on, we'll be fine here for a bit. What do you want to talk about Bruce?” Barbara asks.

Bruce waits until he is sure Dick is out of earshot, then another minute to be sure. A distinct sense of unease sweeps over him. He turns away from Barbara and sits hunched on the edge of the rooftop. Below the road stretches ahead into the heart of the city. Looking down like this the cars and the lives they contained seemed like bright insects crawling on a black vine.

“I...” He starts to say and his voice catches in his throat. He winces and clears his throat.

“Take your time.” Barbara advises.

“No, I’m _fine_ I don’t need...” Bruce starts to protest, angry at his body for betraying him.

Barbara rests a hand on his shoulder.

“Last time something this bad happened you tried suicide by supervillain.” Barbara puts it bluntly.

Bruce winces.

“They…they promised me what the League couldn’t get me. They promised me…justice.” Bruce smiles a small sad smile. “I knew…I knew they were manipulating me but I was angry and I…I thought I could manipulate _them._ I thought that as long as I got revenge nothing else would matter anymore…But it didn’t. I couldn’t kill _him_. I knew if I did then I would die too and there would be nothing but...he made me want to live.”

“Yeah.” Barbara says. “He does that.”

“The stuff they put in me…I blacked out, I don’t remember any of it. When I came to there was nothing but blood. I don’t remember any of it.” Bruce confesses.

“Everyone, they…they knew about the folder. They knew that I had plans to _kill_ them and they still…they still saved me.” Bruce hunches over and holds his head tightly enough to claw at the skin. “Why would they do that?”

"Because they're your family Bruce, because they care about you." Barbara says and rests her hand on his shoulder.

"But _why_?" Bruce says in a whisper as he looks out over the shadowed streets below. “I am worried Dick is going dark.” Bruce tells Barbara to change the subject.

She sighs and leans against the wall.

“Not dark, _back._ ” She tells him. “He was a lot like this when I first met him, when he first left the Court. He’s scared.”

She takes a drag on the e-cigarette and blows out a curling cloud of vapour. Barbara never had a smoking habit, but her fellow officers would be suspicious of anyone without a clear vice. Faking one was better than risking someone digging deep enough to find a real weakness to exploit. It made them think they had something over her that they could use. It wasn’t even real tobacco; it was a non-addictive synthetic substitute. She admitted she hated the taste, but it reminded her of her father.

“Keep an eye on him for me Bruce.” Barbara asks. “It’s a cruel thing the Owls have done to him, it’s meant to break him.”

“I won’t let that happen.” Bruce says fiercely.

“This isn’t a problem you can solve by punching things.” Barbara chuckles.

“I know, I mean, the problems I can solve with punching I will solve with punching, but I want to help in other ways too.” Bruce tells her. “I care about him.”

Barbara sighs and taps the e-cigarette.

“The thing he’s afraid of most is losing his family. The Owls have tried to do that twice already, we can’t guarantee he’ll survive a third time…” She takes another drag on the cigarette.

“Unless we stop them first.” Bruce fills in the silence.

“Unless we stop them first.” Barbara confirms with a nod.

The curl of white smoke disappears into the night air.

“Barbara I…” Bruce starts to say. His nerve fails him. “Never mind…”

“Say what you want Bruce.” The vapour curls in the air like gun-smoke.

“I have to save him Barbara.” Bruce says solemnly. He sits, hunching over and resting his chin on his folded arms. “He saved me. I can’t…I can’t lose him. I just can’t but I…” His voice grows quieter. “I don’t know what to do Barbara. I don’t know how to _fix_ things.” He says bitterly.

“There are no easy answers Bruce.” Barbara tells him.

“I know, I just…” Bruce curls up like a gargoyle. He watches the lights of the city pass below for a moment before managing to speak again. “I just wish I was strong enough to help him.”

A hand rests on his shoulder.

“ _We_ will be.” Barbara says. “We watch each other’s backs, deal?” She offers a hand.

Bruce takes it and seals the deal with a circus handshake.

“Deal.” He agrees.

Barbara musses his hair with one hand.

“And don’t do anything _too_ stupid.” She tells him.

“I make no promises.” Bruce says seriously, then grins. “I’ve missed you Aunty Babs. I’ve missed this.” He turns and waves a hand at the skyline.

“I missed you too buddy.” Barbara says with a smile. “I can’t say the same for Gotham though.”

Bruce looks over the city below. Somewhere out there a mugging was going wrong and a child was being orphaned. There were schemes behind closed doors and fights out in the open, depravity, corruption and greed forming a rising tide of filth that the everyday people waded through on their way to work. Out there the good and evil shared an apartment and fought over the TV remote. Out there was the city they marked with a black pin, calling out for blood and entertainment, and it would applaud whether you fell or flied.   

“I think Gotham has missed me too.” He says quietly.

Dick hasn’t gone far before he runs into someone he preferred to think of as an old friend. Out of habit he had gone far enough to be out of earshot but still find a rooftop close enough to lipread when another spark of red flares in the gloom. This one wasn’t a synthetic cigarette substitute. Jason leans against a wall with a lit cigarette hanging between two fingers and his other hand on a gun half pulled from its holster. Dick notes the safety is still on.

“So, you’re back in my neck of the woods again.” He says, keeping his tone casual and light but already tensed for a fight.

“Yeah.” Dick replies. “Back in good old Gotham.” The word sarcasm is insufficient to describe Dick's tone. Jason chuckles.

“Normally I would kneecap you for dragging my little soldier into this mess, but by the sounds of it he dragged you.” He says.

“What are you doing here Jay?” Dick asks him.

Jason shrugs one shoulder as if he isn’t entirely sure himself.

“You’re always stopping by unexpectedly on people, time someone did it to you.” He says.

Dick nods.

“Fair enough.” He says.

Jason takes a puff of his cigarette.

“Roy still buys lucky charms for his safe houses.” He confesses out of the blue.

“No.” Dick sounds mock scandalized.

“First week off the island Ollie ate three boxes in an hour and threw up rainbows on the rug.” Jason adds and Dick laughs. “Having a kid is good for him. Keeps him on the straight and narrow, Roy’s scared of letting him down.”

“Bruce has been trying to protect me, he’s gotten so clingy, it’s adorable really.” Dick says and chuckles. He looks over the skyline and misses the look Jason shoots at him, that maybe Bruce’s concern is justified.

Dick sighs.

“How am I going to protect him from all of _this?_ ” he mutters under his breath.

“Leave.” Jason stubs out his cigarette on the brickwork behind him.

“I can’t do that Jay.” Dick says. “Gotham needs to know that the Justice League cares.”

Jason laughs.

“The Justice League doesn’t care about Gotham; none of the high-and-mighty heroes care about _Gotham_.” He says.

“The Justice League cares about _everyone_.” Dick says, aware that this is turning into an argument he doesn’t want to have, but Jason seems determined to have a fight.

“You keep on believing that golden boy, never let reality get in the way of your dreams.” Jason says sarcastically.

Dick sighs.

“What do you want me to say Jason? The League has a responsibility to keep the city safe.” He says.

“Yeah, now it’s become an _embarrassment_ to you.” Jason says. “The League only cares now the suffering of thousands is a black mark on that perfect record of yours.”

“Jason, that’s not true…” Dick says to try and calm him down and knows he has made the wrong choice when Jason’s eyes flare.

“Where was the Justice League before now?” Jason is louder now, loud enough there was a risk of being overheard in neighboring buildings. “Where are your precious heroes every time there’s a new kid bleeding out on the streets trying to be like you?! Where are you then?! WHERE WERE YOU WHEN I DIED?!”

“You want to fight me Jason? Then fight me! Go ahead! Hit me as hard as you want, I’m not going to stop you!” Dick snaps. “The League fucked you over, is that what you want to hear?!”

He turns to loom over Jason and spreads his arms. Jason balls his hands into fists but doesn’t take a swing. Dick continues with rage burning flickering red lights in his eyes.

“I never invited you because you were violent and reckless, I didn’t think I could control you and you’re right, that was wrong! I was a stupid, selfish kid who didn’t think you were good enough to be a hero. I should have reached out to you, I should have helped you instead of treating you like an animal who needed to be restrained. YOU DESERVED BETTER!”

He spits on the rooftops as he pauses to take a breath.

“But guess what, life isn’t fair!” He snarls.

Dick jabs a finger at the skyline.

“No guardian angel is going to come and make everything right. What happened to you is _never_ going to be right!” He snarls. “The world doesn’t care about fair or what you deserve! The Red Hood I knew, the Red Hood I was so fucking _scared_ was a better hero than me, knew that! He knew that the only way to get good out of this world was to fight it to the ground and tear its throat out with your damn _teeth_ if you have to. Are you still that Jason Todd?!” He roars.

Jason stands still, his shoulders shaking with barely contained rage as he grits his teeth so tightly they hurt. His hands are curled into fists so tight his knuckles are white to the first finger joint. His breath whooshes from his nose in snorts like a bull about to charge. With his entire body stiff with anger he takes a step forward and rests his forehead against Dick’s shoulder. Dick rests a hand on his shoulder.

“When did I lose myself Dick?” Jason asks him. “When did I become nothing but rage?”

“The Red Hood isn’t done yet.” Dick tells him. “If he was you would have shot me.”

Jason smiles.

“I considered it.” All the angry tension drains from him. “I’m so tired Dick. I’m tired of being angry. I’m tired of _fighting_.”

“Yeah…” Dick breathes out a sigh. “Yeah…I am too.”

Nearly a minute passes in silence before Jason raises his head and takes a step back. There is no longer anger gleaming in his eyes, just a familiar sarcastic weariness with life.

“So…you were scared of me?” He says with a wry half-smile.

“Absolutely terrified.” Dick tells him. “I had two assassin illuminatis training me and I was scared of a kid who did it by himself with nothing more than his guts and his wits.”

Jason chuckles and turns away to look over the rooftops. He pauses for a moment, looking over the cityscape.

“You know illuminati is already a plural right?” He says. “The singular is illuminatus.”

Dick rolls his eyes.

“Really, you chose now for a Latin lesson?” He says with a small smile. “You know…the offer still stands. The Justice League _needs_ you Jason.” Dick tells him.

Jason sighs.

“Too little, too late Grayson.” He says and switching back to last name terms means Dick has lost him. Jason gestures to the streets. “’Hood fought for this place, he bled for this place, he died for this place, and what is there to show for it? Gotham’s still a hellhole, the bastards came trickling back, and people only thought he was worth something after he died. Even you.”

Dick can’t deny it, he wishes he could but he can’t. No-one in the League had wanted to extend membership to Jason until after he had died proving himself. It was something he had bitterly regretted, even before Jason had been revived.

“Why do you come back here Jason?” He asks instead. “You don’t owe this place a damn thing.”

Jason looks over the skyline, his eyes dark and unreadable.

“I know I don’t…I…I hate it but…It’s still home Dick. It’s home.”

Dick in reminded uncomfortably of Bruce and his heart twinges with pain.

“You heard the saying ‘all roads lead to Rome’?” Jason asks. “We’ve got another saying ‘round here, all crimes start in Gotham. Cynical maybe, but not inaccurate, every case I’ve chased ends up here. There’s always something that ends up calling me back, the city leaves a mark on you that won’t scrub off.”

He sits on the edge of the rooftop and lets his legs hang off the edge. He looks straight down to the alleyway below. There is a ghost of a stain on the stone; maybe someone has jumped from here before and splattered themselves across the cobblestones.

“Sometimes I wonder if it was a mistake, me coming back.” He says softly. “Sometimes I wonder if I came back at all, or if I’m something else that was born in that dark place and just thinks it used to be Jason Todd. It scares me, I don’t know if I am me.” He looks up and there is a dark despair in his eyes, a pit Dick can’t see the bottom of, and, glinting in the depths, a spark of a plea for help.

Dick gives the best advice he can.

“Go down there and _help_ someone, help a lost child find their family, find a missing pet, comfort someone after a break-up, just do it as Jason Todd, not because you think you have a legacy to live up to.” Dick tells him.

 Jason sighs.

“…Yeah, I think I’ll do that.” He says.

“You’re my friend Jason, you do know that, don’t you?” Dick asks him.

Jason says nothing but steps off the rooftop into the Gotham night. Dick lets him go. Trying to get him to stay will only make things worse between them.


End file.
